Twelve Months
by SassyK
Summary: Twelve months is nothing when you've spent decades walking the earth, existing, searching; twelve months is everything when your search has come to an end. One year in the life of a gentle soul and the woman who recasts his world.
1. January

**_Twilight _and its characters are owned by Stephenie Meyer.**

* * *

**~January~**

White.

Snow, blanketing the ground. Ice, encasing bare branches. Frozen lake, a blinding expanse, despite the lack of sun.

Frozen, like my heart.

Whisper-quiet and clean, bitter cold air.

Nothing to interfere with the sounds and scents of nature. A perfect day, really.

Closing my eyes, I lift my face to the sky, breathing in my surroundings, listening to my world.

Familiar scents and well-known sounds greet my senses. Comforting, reassuring.

Cocking my head to the right, I decide to follow the deer. Three, maybe four of them. The new-fallen snow will make them especially easy to track.

Driven by need and uncivilized desire, I begin my trek through the woods, seeking sustenance.

When it's cold outside, I need to eat more often; the animals' blood tastes different, diluted. In the warmer months, their blood is richer, more filling. Heavy, like the summer air. I've sometimes gone more than a week without feeding, kept strong by one single kill. In the winter, if I go more than a few days without hunting, the cravings and hallucinations begin.

It doesn't take long to find them. They're beside a small stream, seeking out the icy cold water. Oblivious to my presence—at least for the moment.

Three adults and one older fawn. I watch them as they drink, wistful for a time when water satisfied me.

We all thirst—just in different ways.

Seconds later, we're on the run. The fawn is desperately trying to keep up with the others, but stumbles. I could easily take it, but sprint past. I don't like killing the young. I want them to have the chance that was never afforded me—the chance to live.

The chase is exhilarating—running, dodging, trying to predict my prey's moves. The anticipation of what's to come fuels my body, makes me feel invincible.

My parched throat burns even more as I run. It spurs me on, forces me to go faster. I need blood. I need it now.

The thought sickens me. Yet I press on, a slave to my thirst.

It's not long until I catch her. She struggles, but I'm strong and skilled at submission.

I avoid looking into her eyes.

Even though I've had a hard time believing in God since my change, I still ask for His forgiveness before I sink my teeth into the deer's neck.

I ask the deer for her forgiveness as well.

Blood slides down my throat, hot, tangy. The taste is slightly disagreeable, but I gulp greedily, eager for my thirst to be quenched.

When the poor beast is finally drained, I stumble back and fall to the ground, equally sated and disgusted. Always at war. Good versus evil.

Why me, God, why me?

It's a question I ask every single time.

It's a question that's haunted me for many years.

It's a question I never expect to be answered.

* * *

The nights are barely tolerable. Long, oppressive, suffocating.

I prefer to hunt during the day, so I spend most evenings at home, reading, writing, painting.

Thinking.

Thinking of things that could have been—should have been.

Sometimes, bitterness wraps me in its dark shroud, and I sit, still as a stone, allowing rage, hatred, and unhappiness to wash through me. I sit, alone and lonely, and wait for daylight to come.

* * *

The morning breaks clear and bright. The sun is still low, but filters brilliantly through the bare branches, inspiring me to paint. Retrieving my supplies, I notice I'm running low on oils.

A trip to town is in order—an unpleasant necessity. The thought of being around so many living people is both thrilling and terrifying. I avoid them as much as possible and they avoid me. My eccentric reputation keeps them at bay, which is to their good fortune.

I may be restrained in my feeding practices, but not infallible.

Fiery oranges, deep purples, and vibrant yellows streak across my canvas. Dark browns and pure whites fill in. Stepping back, I survey my work. It has promise. Perhaps I'll be able to trade it for more supplies.

I don't know what I would do if I couldn't paint. It's a carryover from my human years. I found comfort in it then; now it stops me from going completely mad.

* * *

Tucking a few of my completed paintings under my arm, I begin the journey into civilization. I fed yesterday, so I feel comfortable enough to do so.

Still, the barrage of scents and sounds will be difficult to ignore. I need time to prepare myself for the assault, and the walk will do just that.

I'm so lost in my thoughts that I almost miss it—the presence of another.

Guard up, I approach a copse of trees and take cover.

I see her.

She's standing next to the same stream where I spotted the deer yesterday. Perfectly still, gazing down, seemingly mesmerized by the bubbling and gurgling water. Her hair is dark, some of it swept to the top of her head, the rest cascading down her back in curling tendrils, a shocking contrast to the white fur cape that cloaks her.

She must be a hallucination, conjured up by my imagination.

A dream; a pagan princess, dark and lovely. A fervent wish, born of my lonely existence.

She moves and I blink my eyes. Squeeze them shut, count to five and open them again.

She's still there.

Bending down, she scoops a bit of water into her cupped hands and drinks. She repeats this a few times before standing and wiping her hands on her cape.

I'm frozen in place, rendered senseless by the sight of this exquisite creature.

Until I smell her.

Venom flows. Bloodlust awakens, savage and feral. I see, smell, and practically taste her blood. Imagine how desirable it would look, running down her neck, spilling onto her virgin white cape…

It's only with great restraint that I'm able to remain where I am, hidden amongst the trees. Never before have I experienced such a feeling; I'm shaking with want.

Reaching down, she retrieves her hat and carpet bag and turns back toward the woodland path that will lead her into town.

I follow.

I don't know how or what force led her to my world; I only know I don't want her to leave.


	2. February, Part One

**Stephenie Meyer owns _Twilight._**

**Thanks to Michelle.**

* * *

**~February, Part One~**

Grey.

Clouds, low in the sky, constantly threaten—and frequently deliver—foul weather.

Cold air seeps down from the north, slowly and without mercy. Hunting is a challenge; animals are scarce, but easy to catch, sluggish from the cold and lack of food.

February is usually when I'm at my most introspective, my darkest frame of mind.

This year, however, my thoughts are elsewhere.

Instead of dwelling on my own unfortunate fate, I find myself thinking of another's.

I had followed her into town that very first day, keeping my distance. She made her way to a respectable boarding house and presumably secured a room. I quickly concluded my business and returned home, only to make my way back a few hours later under cover of darkness.

I watched her as often as I could, secretly stalking her like the animal I am. Shame burned deep in the pit of my stomach, but I was powerless to resist.

After several days, I knew her routine.

* * *

I'm confused. Frustrated. On edge.

I go through the motions with even less enthusiasm than before.

Distracted, my fantasies take hold.

When I'm feeding, I imagine it's her body I'm restraining, her throat I'm suckling, her blood I'm swallowing.

The physical act is the same as with an animal: subdue, bite, drink. A clinical, methodical process. A slight tinge of remorse for the creature below me.

But when I think of doing those things to _her..._

I've long learned to suppress my sexual desires, but her presence has awakened them. Feeding on human blood is an erotic experience, one I remember from my early days. I can't even begin to imagine how pleasurable it would be to lay with her before tasting her blood.

To lower my naked body over hers. Join with her as man and woman are meant to be joined. Hold her. Feel her pulse throb under her skin. Trace the sensual lines of her veins. Press my mouth against her throat. Delight in the sound of her skin tearing open as I slowly, slowly take my pleasure...

Closing my eyes, I will away these wicked thoughts, banishing them to the deepest, most impenetrable recesses of my mind.

I ache to touch her.

But she's not here, so I touch myself instead.

* * *

She makes her way onto my canvas. Peeking from behind a tree. Sitting in a field of flowers. Reclining on a chaise. Gazing out to sea.

Paintings clutter my workroom. Spill into other areas of my home. Ordinarily, I trade or sell the more polished pieces for supplies and discard the rest, but I don't want to share her with anyone and I can't bring myself to destroy her likeness.

An unhealthy obsession for me; a dangerous one for her.

I pride myself on my self-control, my ability to resist the temptation of human blood. It was a decision I made many years ago, after discovering there was another way.

I didn't want to be a monster, an abomination of God, damned and forced to walk the earth for eternity.

So I chose the other path, hoping that perhaps my choice might offer a chance at salvation.

It wasn't easy in the beginning; I had, after all, been preying on humans for several years after my change. But I held fast and it became tolerable.

With each year, each decade, hope fades. Still, I persevere, because it's all I have left.

And now, temptation has arrived in the form of a raven-haired young woman and I find my resolve being tested.

God help us both.

* * *

I wish she had never come to this place.

I can't bear the thought of her leaving.

I want to tongue her throat, pierce her flesh, take selfishly from her body.

I want to hold her gently, kiss her softly.

I want to make her like me, so we can be together forever.

I want to show her what I really am, so she'll run very, very far away.

I want, I want, I want...

* * *

The storm hits with a fury. Twenty-four hours of steady snow, preventing me from traveling into town. Keeping me from _her._

Not because of the frigid temperatures or the impassable roads—such obstacles are no concern to my kind.

They are, however, impediments to a human—of which I'm perceived to be.

So I wait. Impatiently.

Pacing. Feeling as if I could crawl out of my skin. Shouting out my frustration, both to myself and any other creature that happens my way.

I can't go on like this.

* * *

The weather finally breaks. My need to see her again has reached an intolerable level.

Shrugging into my coat, I make a mental note of the supplies I need to purchase, in the guise of being human.

On the walk in, I plot out how I can discover her name and circumstances without raising suspicions.

Is she spoken for? Already married? Widowed?

Is her voice sweet and musical? Or low and seductive?

What color are her eyes?

Is her skin pale and unblemished? Or is it freckled from too much sunlight?

Is she intelligent and well-read? Or is beauty her only desirable quality?

Does her blood taste ripe and sweet, like summer fruit plucked straight from the tree? Or rich and decadent, like warm, melted chocolate?

I'm debating the merits of both when I finally break out from the woods and begin the last few miles of my journey.

As soon as I reach the outskirts of civilization, I keep my gaze fixed ahead. Walk with purpose. Avoid interaction.

I purchase a few supplies from the grocer and make arrangements to pick them up before my return trek.

Pulling my watch from my pocket, I check the time.

Any minute now.

My eyes scan the crowd, but I don't see her.

I wait thirty minutes, but she never shows. Disappointment floods me. Concern prods me.

Anger creeps in, too.

And finally, the all too familiar, bitter sting of being alone.

No doubt, she's already moved on—most of what's ever been good in my life has. I've come to expect it.

I dare not linger any longer. Casting one last glance up and down the street, I turn and make my way back to the grocer.

I'm nearing the small shop where I buy my art supplies. I can never resist the quaint atmosphere, so I step inside.

It's a glorious little store, tucked away in a back street, filled with all sorts of odds and ends.

Musty, old books. Incense. Distant, but happy memories greet me as I breathe in.

The proprietor, Mr. Elkins, emerges from a back room.

"Mr. Cullen! What a surprise to see you back so soon! Surely you haven't gone through all that paint already, now have you?"

I smile warmly. Mr. Elkins is the only person with whom I engage in conversation. He reminds me of my father.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Elkins. It's a pleasure to see you again," I say, nodding my head. "I confess, I am in need of several colors. Perhaps a few new brushes, as well. I've been quite inspired lately."

"Excellent! Now then, what colors would you like? And I'm still trying to locate a supplier of Kolinsky sable brushes who won't charge me an arm and a leg."

"I appreciate your diligence, Mr. Elkins. Raw umber, chrome green and lead white, please. Your regular supply of brushes will do. I'll take a new filbert brush, and a fan brush if you have it. Also, I seem to have misplaced my palette knife, so I'll be requiring one of those, as well."

"Very good, sir," he says, retreating to his back room. He continues to speak while rummaging around for my requested items.

"There's been a bit of interest in the pieces you brought in last month. One young woman in particular has asked about them."

If I had a beating heart, it might have stopped at those words.

Do I dare even…?

"Young woman?" I ask, feigning mild curiosity.

"Yes," he replies, returning to the front with his hands full. "Just arrived last month. Widowed, poor lass. Such a shame for someone so young," he says, shaking his head sympathetically.

"Indeed," I reply quietly, watching as he wraps up my supplies.

My somber expression belies the feelings I'm holding inside: excitement, fear, confusion.

Desire.

"Mr. Cullen?"

His voice shakes me back into reality.

"I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Elkins, I was lost in thought. You were saying?"

"I'm afraid that since the paintings haven't sold yet, I'm going to need payment today."

"Of course," I say, reaching into my pocket. "How much do I owe you?"

"I think five dollars should cover it. I'm sorry, sir, but—"

I hold up my hand to stop him.

"No explanations, Mr. Elkins. You're a kind and generous man," I say and hand him his money.

"Thank you, sir. As are you," he answers.

Then it happens.

The front door of the shop opens.

Bells jingle. Hinges creak.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Senses go into alert. Primal instincts pound at me, begging to be released.

"Ah, Mrs. Black! Well now, if this isn't a pleasant coincidence!" Mr. Elkins says excitedly.

Closing my eyes and clenching my fists, I prepare myself, as the moment for which I've been hungering for weeks is about to transpire.

I turn around and there she is.

She smiles…at me.

And so begins the next phase of my existence.


	3. February, Part Two

**_Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer.**

**Big thanks to Michelle, Anne, and as always, Kirsten.**

* * *

**~February, Part Two~**

Brown.

Rich. Warm. Inviting.

Her eyes.

I can't look away—her eyes hold me captive. She's yet to speak a single word, but already I'm her most willing servant.

I do believe I would do anything she asked of me.

_My salvation. _

Suddenly, I'm hit with a wall of fragrance so heady, so alluring, so dangerously close...

_My damnation._

A red haze clouds my eyes. Saliva, mixing with venom, threatens to choke me.

I swallow my bloodlust as Mr. Elkins' voice breaks my trance and drags me back to humanity.

"Mr. Cullen, may I introduce you to Mrs. Isabella Black?"

_Isabella. _

"Mrs. Black, this is Mr. Edward Cullen, the creator of the paintings you've been admiring."

Her eyes open wide and her smile becomes impossibly brighter.

I know I should be greeting her, but I'm struck dumb by her presence.

Fortunately, Isabella takes charge of the situation, extending her hand to me.

"Mr. Cullen, it's lovely to meet you."

Somehow I manage to regain control of my senses.

Smiling broadly, I bow and take her hand.

"The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Black."

I've never felt anything so soft in my entire existence. Softer than the underbelly of a deer. Softer than goose down.

So soft, so easy to pierce...

I quickly drop her hand.

A hint of confusion crosses her face before she speaks again.

"Mr. Cullen, your paintings are absolutely beautiful. The colors are so vibrant and cheery! You make me wish I was standing in the middle of that field of wildflowers," she gushes, gesturing to the smallest of the three pieces.

_If you only knew how much I've wished that too, sweet Isabella..._

"You're too kind, Mrs. Black. I'm pleased that my work makes you feel that way. I consider it an honor that you find my painting inspiring enough to envision yourself as a part of it."

A hint of red stains her cheeks and I want to eat her alive.

"Well, it speaks highly of your talent that you've enabled me to do so. It's a nice escape from the dreariness of reality," she says, sighing and looking out the window.

But of course, she would be lonely.

If the painting makes her happy, then it's hers.

Turning around, I lift the painting from the display easel.

"For you."

Isabella clutches her hands over her heart.

"Oh, Mr. Cullen, you're too kind, but I can't possibly accept such an extravagant piece and I'm currently not in a position to purchase it."

Her disappointment is obvious and tears at my insides. As if I had any intention of taking her money.

"I don't want any money, Mrs. Black—I mean it to be a gift. It will make me happy knowing that it's in the possession of someone who enjoys it. I have plenty of other pieces at home to show in its place. Mr. Elkins, would that be acceptable to you?"

Mr. Elkins, always so pleasant and accommodating, nods his head and smiles.

"Of course, Mr. Cullen. May I wrap it up for you?"

I look at Isabella, awaiting her approval. She nods slightly.

"Yes, Mr. Elkins, you may. And could you arrange to have it delivered to Mrs. Black's residence?"

"Certainly, sir," he says as I hand him the painting.

Turning back to face Isabella, I'm once again struck by her beauty.

I'm also assaulted by her scent.

It calls to me. Entices me. Tempts me. Teases me with the promise of unrivaled ecstasy.

She steps closer, reaching her hand out to rest on my arm.

The urge to push her to the ground is unbearable. Years of practiced restraint prevent me from doing so.

"Thank you, Mr. Cullen," she says quietly. "I'm overwhelmed by your generosity."

"Just enjoy it, Mrs. Black. That would be the greatest payment I could hope to receive from you."

She removes her hand from my arm and looks up at me. Just stares into my eyes and I into hers.

I'm drowning.

Our brief connection is broken by Mr. Elkins.

"I'll have Jeremy run this over to the inn this evening, Mrs. Black. Was there anything else you needed today?"

"No, thank you, Mr. Elkins. I only stopped in to admire the paintings," she says, glancing my way and throwing me a brilliant smile. "Thank you, Mr. Cullen. I'm looking forward to seeing whatever else you bring into the shop."

I can't help but smile back.

"I hope it will meet your expectations, Mrs. Black."

"Good day, gentlemen," she says and exits the shop.

I'm grinning like a fool, but if Mr. Elkins notices, he says nothing. I gather my supplies and take my leave moments after Isabella.

I want to follow her, but I don't. I'm satisfied that I'll see her again soon.

* * *

On the way home, I replay our exchange in my mind.

I also think about _her._

The grace of her carriage.

The sheen of her hair.

Her full lips.

The way her hand felt on my arm.

The warmth of her gaze…

I replay it over and over again.

* * *

It's dark when I return home, but I start a new painting immediately, the inspiration still vivid in my head: Isabella's hand on my arm. Slender, white fingers resting on grey wool.

As I paint, my mind wanders.

I think of her fingers on my bare skin. Threading through my hair. Scraping down my back.

Her fingers, pressing against the hardness beneath my trousers.

I think of my fingers, pulling the pins from her hair, watching as it cascades down her back.

My fingers, reaching under the hem of her dress, caressing her bare ankle, her naked calf.

My fingers, hitching her dress higher and higher, seeking out the secret place between her thighs…

Throwing my brush in frustration, I run outside into the night.

A quick hunt will do me good, release some of this tension, this uncharacteristic heat.

Running fast and without abandon, I revel in the chilled night air. I make it a game to see how fast I can run without colliding into jagged tree branches.

Slowing my pace as I grow bored with the game, I catch the scent of a bear and hunt it down, praying its blood will slake my thirst.

A few minutes later, I'm staring down at the lifeless carcass, waiting for its blood to seep into my own unnatural tissues.

It does. I feel it. I'm no longer thirsty… for blood.

My bloodlust has been tempered, but my carnal lust is soaring.

* * *

Several hours later, I enter an inconspicuous building in the neighboring town.

A brothel. A whorehouse.

A place I haven't visited in many, many years.

The faces are different and the fashions have changed, but the purpose remains the same.

As I enter, half a dozen faces turn to look at me, their gazes almost predatory.

Scanning the room, my eyes settle briefly on a petite brunette, but I quickly pass her over; I don't want any reminder of Isabella.

A short, matronly woman who I assume to be the proprietress approaches me. Before she can even speak, I reach into my pocket and produce several bills—her eyes pop open when she sees the denomination.

I point to an auburn-haired girl draped wantonly across a chair at the back of the room.

"You, madam, will suffice."

Standing, she walks toward me and I'm pleased to see that she's tall and sturdily built—which is to her advantage, because I don't plan on being gentle tonight.

She leads me up the stairs and tries to engage me in conversation.

"I'm in no mood to speak," I say harshly.

Nodding her head in understanding, she opens a door at the far end of the hallway and leads me in.

The room is sparsely furnished. The cloying scent of perfume hangs heavy in the enclosed space. I close my eyes and conjure up an image of Isabella sitting amongst a field of wildflowers in the fresh summer air.

Breathing deeply, the thick perfume threatens to choke me.

When I open my eyes, it's not Isabella who's standing in front of me, but a common whore—with an uncommonly pretty mouth.

I drag my thumb across her plump lips and then push on her shoulders and she sinks to her knees in front of me, expertly unfastening my trousers. When she takes me in her mouth, I groan in relief.

My eyes squeeze shut again, and for a few moments, I lose myself in a fantasy.

Lose myself in Isabella.

My hands instinctively reach for her hair, but instead of finding soft, silky waves, they plunge into coarse, wiry ringlets.

My eyes jerk open and I immediately pull her off me, shoving her toward the bed.

She falls onto her stomach and I position her on her hands and knees. Without further preamble, I lift her skirts and push into her.

I fuck her savagely, and fittingly, she moans like an animal.

As my climax nears, I press myself into her back, my hands gripping her hips like a vise, my mouth clamping onto her neck like a leech.

When I release inside her, the red haze blinds me.

_Bite, bite, bite_…

So I do, although not hard enough.

Still, she cries out in pain.

I pull myself away, fumbling with my trousers.

Her hand reaches for her neck and she turns and glares at me, ugly profanities spewing from her pretty mouth.

I marked her skin, but I didn't break it.

Tossing a few gold coins on the bed, I open the window and make my escape.

Once I'm deep in the woods, I lean against the trunk of a tree and retch.

I'm disgusted with myself. Horrified by my actions.

At least the girl is still alive.

My lust abated, I make my way home.


	4. March

**_Twilight _and its characters are owned by Stephenie Meyer.**

**Huge thanks to arfalcon for not only keeping me straight, but also her much needed support.**

* * *

**~March~**

Blue.

Glory-of-the-snows, poking up defiantly from the snow cover. Their presence heralds the arrival of spring, despite the still-cold temperatures.

Spring—a new beginning.

I want a new beginning. Every year, when the days grow longer and the earth starts to color, I dream of it.

Now that I've met Isabella, I want it to happen more than ever.

Although after my encounter with the prostitute, I'm not sure it _should_ happen. I did leave her alive. A bit bruised, but alive. The thought of treating Isabella in that manner makes me sick with disgust. As she would no doubt feel about me, if she were to discover my true nature.

I could barely manage to restrain myself with someone I cared nothing for. How can I possibly rein in my self-control with the woman who means everything to me?

* * *

It's been several weeks. I prepare my excuse every time I make my increasingly frequent visits into town.

She's not following her usual schedule. I never see her.

Desperate to find her, I entertain the thought of slipping into her room at night, if only to watch her sleep.

It would be easy to make my way inside. Unnoticed. Silent. Creep through the hallway, her scent a siren's song.

Closing my eyes, I imagine her curled up in sleep. Peaceful. Innocent. My hands reach to pull away the bedclothes, the moonlight illuminating her slumbering form.

Her eyes flutter open and she smiles sleepily when she sees me standing above her. She isn't afraid. Her arms open wide and she invites me in.

I settle on top of her, taking her in my arms. Warmth seeps into my skin. She whispers my name as I fill her with my desire...

With a groan, I climax, alone and in the dark. Always in the dark.

* * *

It's the middle of March. The weather has taken a pleasant turn, the higher sun angle working to erode winter's carpet.

The streets in town are bustling with activity. The warmer temperatures have coaxed people from their homes, myself included—albeit for a different reason.

_Where are you, Isabella? _

After purchasing a newspaper from a street corner vendor, I find an unoccupied bench in the center green. Settling down, I manage to read bits and pieces in between searching the streets for Isabella.

Decades of being a vampire has forced me to become a patient man, but today, I'm feeling anxious. I need to see her. Hear her voice. Smell her skin.

My hands start to crumple the newspaper. Just before I tear it to shreds, a breeze blows my way, saving me from embarrassment.

_She's here. _

Looking up, my eyes scan the crowd, anticipation pounding inside my silent chest.

There she is, walking up the steps to the library.

Checking the urge to rush after her, I remain in my seat for a few minutes. Collect my thoughts. Tamp down my baser needs.

Smoothing out the newspaper, I fold it up, tuck it under my arm and follow her in.

The library is empty. Quieter than usual.

I smell her before I see her.

Treading silently, I pass each row of books until I find her.

Her head is cocked to the side, index finger sliding across spines of well-worn books. Every so often, she pauses, contemplating a title.

She's deep in concentration and not aware of my presence.

The perfect prey.

My eyes wander over her, admiring the contrast between the deep brown of her hair and the pale skin of her long neck.

She's so lovely.

My eyes trace the lovely blue line of her jugular vein. Next to it, throbbing out a hypnotic beat, is her carotid artery, pulsing sensually under her porcelain skin.

Venom slides down my throat and I shift slightly; the movement catches her attention.

"Mr. Cullen!" she exclaims, her eyes widening with surprise.

"Good day, Mrs. Black. Please accept my apologies; I didn't mean to intrude on your solitude."

"I must confess, you did startle me. I was completely lost in my thoughts."

"A good book tends to do that. May I ask what has captured your attention?"

She casts her eyes down and the most exquisite blush colors her face. Hunger starts to gnaw deep in my belly.

"I'm not sure I want to tell you," she says with a nervous laugh.

I'm intrigued.

"That's perfectly alright, Mrs. Black, please don't think I was prying."

"I know you weren't. I'm just worried that you might find my tastes a bit...unconventional. Especially for a woman."

I can't help myself; I have to know.

"Well, Mrs. Black, I'm a bit unconventional as well. I can assure you, I do not judge people on their literary tastes." I pause briefly. "That is, as long as they're the same as mine," I add with a grin.

Isabella knits her eyebrows together for a few seconds before throwing her head back and laughing heartily.

The movement exposes her entire throat, thrusting it forward as if in offering.

I force myself to look at my shoes.

When Isabella stops laughing, I compose myself enough to look at her again. Her eyes are bright with amusement.

"Alright, Mr. Cullen, you've made your point. Let's see if we're of like mind, shall we?"

She reaches up to a shelf, pulls out a book, and hands it to me.

Mary Shelley's _Frankenstein._

I can't help but laugh at the irony of it.

Isabella crosses her arms and frowns, glaring at me.

"Yes, Mr. Cullen, my taste runs toward the macabre. Judge away...are we literarily compatible?"

Her fiery defiance has me thinking wicked, wicked thoughts; it emboldens me.

Glancing down at the book, I study it for a few moments before lifting my gaze to hers. I see surprise in her eyes as I lean in closer. Without breaking eye contact, I return the book to the shelf directly above her shoulder.

Her heart rate quickens, tapping an alluring rhythm.

"Yes, Mrs. Black, we seem to be remarkably compatible."

I linger just a fraction too long.

Her breathing stutters and I pull away before I sink my teeth into her glorious neck.

Not wanting to frighten her more than I undoubtedly already have, I quickly regain my composure.

I'm already aware of her marital situation, yet I have to ask about her husband; she might think it suspect if I don't.

"What about Mr. Black? Does he share your love of the macabre?" I spit, my words spilling harshly over my tongue; I regret them immediately.

A pained expression crosses her face before she answers.

"My husband died several months ago. And no, he did not share my love of books, macabre or otherwise."

Spoken with such quiet dignity. I feel like a complete ass for phrasing my question the way I did.

"Please accept my sincere condolences, Mrs. Black. It must be a difficult time for you."

"I'm adjusting," she says.

She seems so small right now. Lonely, too.

A kindred spirit.

I want to reach out, cradle her in my arms, and tell her I understand.

"I know we've only just met, but if there's anything I can do—"

"Thank you, Mr. Cullen, that's very kind of you," she says, interrupting.

Her tone tells me I've been dismissed.

"You're welcome," I reply.

Silence.

"I must be going. Sorry to have disturbed you, Mrs. Black. I hope you enjoy your selection," I say, nodding to the books. "Good day."

Silently cursing my stupidity, I turn and walk away.

I've not yet reached the exit when I hear the clicking of shoes across the marble floor.

"Mr. Cullen!"

Turning around, I see her walking briskly toward me. When she stops in front of me, she looks up at me, her brown eyes full of emotion.

"Please forgive me, Mr. Cullen. I didn't mean to be so rude. It's just that...it's still a bit...raw."

I want to comfort her, but I don't know how. All I have to offer are words.

So I give them to her, but when they leave my lips, they sound trite and forced.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Black. I can't imagine the strain you must be under."

"Thank you," she says softly.

I've never felt so tongue-tied before. This petite, slip of a woman has thrown my world off balance. A few seconds of awkward silence pass before Isabella speaks.

"Actually, there is something you might be able to do for me."

"Anything," I say, perhaps a bit too eagerly.

The way she studies me makes me feel exposed. It excites me.

Thank god we're in a public venue, because if we were alone, truly alone...

Part of me—the remnants of my civilized self—would lay her down gently and love her slowly, reverently. My feral side would bend her over the wooden table and take her hard and fast, nipping at her skin, licking her blood until I surrender to instinct and clamp down on her axillary artery, draining her while pumping my seed inside her.

The sound of voices interrupts my licentious thoughts. Two gentlemen wander by, discussing ancient Greek history.

Isabella smiles pleasantly at the men as they pass by, and once they disappear down the corridor, she lets out a breath and speaks.

"Would it be too bold of me to ask if you would consider being my reading companion? I would love to be able to have a friend with whom I could discuss various pieces of literature...poetry, even. I've always longed to sit down with someone who has read the same books and listen to another's thoughts, perhaps gain some new insights..."

Her voice trails away and she looks down, a sudden shyness seeming to take hold.

I don't know if she is usually so free in her speech, or if loneliness has compelled her to reach out for the company of a stranger.

It makes no difference to me. She's asked for my company and she shall have it.

"I would be honored to be your literary companion, Mrs. Black," I say with a slight bow of my head.

"Oh, thank you! I can't tell you how much this means to me," she says, gratitude evident in her face.

"As it does me, Mrs. Black. I rarely get the opportunity to discuss the classics with someone who seems so passionate about the subject. I have some free time now, or we could arrange to meet another day?"

She glances at the large clock on the wall and her smile widens.

"I do have the next hour at my disposal. Shall we find somewhere in the library, or would you prefer outdoors?"

It's such a pretty day outside, but there are too many prying eyes and I don't want to share her.

"There's a small sitting area tucked away at the far end of the second floor. It's comfortable and situated next to a large window, so perhaps it will lend us the illusion of being outside," I explain.

"That sounds perfect," she says as she retrieves the copy of _Frankenstein_ from the shelf. "Shall we start with this?"

"That sounds perfect," I echo with a smile. I offer her my arm and as we make our way upstairs, I wonder if Isabella realizes that she holds a monster in each hand.

We spend the next hour debating _Frankenstein_. I'm more than impressed with her knowledge of the story and utterly enthralled by her thoughts. But it's difficult to sit so close to her. With every shift of her body, her scent assaults me. I'm tested like I've never been before.

But I endure, because I have no choice. She is my life now.

All too quickly, our time comes to an end. With a promise to meet again next week, we take our leave. I discretely watch her until she rounds the street corner.

I think about her the whole way home. Her eyes. Her hair. Her mouth.

I want her. So very badly.

But I also want to _know _her. Become as intimately acquainted with her mind as I would her body.

Almost as badly as I want to taste her blood.


	5. April

_**Twilight **_**and its characters are owned by Stephenie Meyer.**

**Much love and gratitude to the amazing arfalcon.**

* * *

**~April~**

Yellow.

Cheerful, hopeful, as it streaks across my canvas.

My brush moves furiously back and forth, creating flower after flower until the entire canvas is brimming with daffodils.

A bouquet for my Isabella.

She'd told me they're one of her favorite flowers, so I want to present her with a field of daffodils that will never fade—a field I hope will be a bright spot for her during even the darkest weather.

Everything I paint now is for her. Inspired by her, dedicated to her.

Of course, most of them I'll never give to her because there are too many.

And I don't want her to be put off by my...obsession.

I'm not able to express my desire for her in a natural way, so I channel my thoughts, feelings, and excess energy onto canvas.

My physical needs are another matter. The incident at the brothel still vivid in my mind, I struggle with my sexual urges. Many of the pieces reflect my frustration; the colors are dark, the brush strokes heavy and frenetic. A few depict violent acts, the color red thick and prominent.

When I think of Isabella and our literary discussions, however, my mood softens and so does my art. Impressionistic landscapes and softly focused portraits flow from my brush.

I want to love her. I want to shelter her and protect her from the evil I know exists in this world. And God help her, I want to bite her. I want to fuck her. I want to drink her. I want to penetrate her in every way possible.

I want it all.

* * *

Today is our third library meeting. We've discussed Shakespeare, Edgar Allan Poe and the Brontë sisters. While Isabella claims to prefer the macabre, I've discovered she has a soft spot for romance. History also fascinates her. Earlier today she was musing over tales of knights and ladies and courtly love, and I was hanging on her every word.

She's hardly mentioned her past, so I don't press the matter. In return, I've offered her little of mine. It's as if we're both starting anew. Perhaps she'll open up to me in time. Time is something I have plenty of, and for once, I'm grateful for it.

We're quiet right now. Isabella is leafing through a book of photographs from the Civil War while I'm pretending to read an anthology of English romantic poets. A gentle rain is falling outside the window beside us and the only sounds inside are the ticking of the clock and the turning of pages from our books. I like how we can be together and not feel the need for conversation—a testament, I think, to our growing comfort with each other.

All too soon, however, the clock strikes four, signaling the end of our day together. Isabella closes her book with a small sigh.

"These afternoons seem to slip by so quickly," she says. "I swear, it was one o'clock not ten minutes ago!"

"I agree," I say. "Good books and pleasant company always seem to hasten time."

Isabella stands and I offer to return her book. She objects, but I insist, so she graciously gives in.

As much as I don't want to leave, I need fresh air. I've become more accustomed to the smell of her blood, but being in such close quarters with her today has been extremely tempting. The damp weather always brings out the strongest scent in animal blood, and it appears to be no different with Isabella.

When I return from replacing the books to their shelves, Isabella is standing beside the window, looking outside. Her profile is breathtaking and I make a note to remember to bring my small sketch tablet to our next meeting.

"The rain has stopped," she says. "I was hoping to see a rainbow, but the sun isn't cooperating." She turns her face up to the sky. "Rainbows remind me of my mother; she loved them so."

It's the first time she's mentioned anyone from her past apart from her husband. I'm about to inquire further until Isabella turns to me and smiles.

"Ready to go?" she asks.

"If you're ready, then, yes," I reply.

I escort her down the stairs and into the lobby, where we retrieve our coats and umbrellas from the cloak room. Assisting Isabella with her coat, I allow myself the luxury of resting my fingers on her shoulders while she pulls her hair out from beneath her collar. The motion wafts her scent around me, and even though it tortures me, I'm powerless to resist; I inhale deeply.

We make our way outside and down the steps. The roar of an engine approaches and I turn my head just as an automobile hits a rut in the road, splashing dirty water in our direction. I instinctively shield Isabella's body with my own to prevent her from getting wet. The force of my action pushes her against the side of the library, my body covering hers.

In this all-too-brief moment, I feel her soft curves and warm breath. I hear her rapidly pounding pulse. I smell rosewater on her skin, as well as..._her._

Isabella steadies herself by placing her hands on my shoulders; my hands move to her waist to counterbalance. She looks up at me and I down at her. The urge to crush her body against mine and devour her takes hold of me, so I release her before I do just that.

"Are you hurt?" I ask.

"No," she answers, shaking her head and smoothing out her dress where my desperate fingers have wrinkled the fabric.

"Mrs. Black, please forgive my roughness, I was only trying to prevent your dress from getting soaked by that cursed automobile," I say, spitting out the last two words as I stare angrily at the disappearing machine.

"Mr. Cullen, I'm fine! You were a perfect gentleman, and I appreciate your concern for my...dress," she says, peeking up at me with a cheeky grin on her face.

She was teasing me. If I had blood flowing through my veins, I believe I would have blushed at her boldness. I feel giddy and alive, so I play along.

"Well, it is a lovely dress. Far too lovely for me to stand by and allow it to come to harm."

My tone is light, but what I'm insinuating is not. I'm not speaking of her dress and I try to convey this by holding her gaze.

She stares at me for a few seconds before looking down and saying, "This dress? It's nothing special, really. Just an ordinary dress."

Her voice is flat and full of sadness. I ache to reach out and touch her. How can she not know how beautiful she is?

"I'm afraid I disagree with you, Mrs. Black. I think it's the most exquisite dress I've ever laid eyes on." I pause and when she looks up at me, I finish. "Ever."

She has to know now.

Her eyes glaze slightly and I think she might cry, but she straightens up, smiles and thanks me.

"You're too kind, Mr. Cullen. And I'm late. I must be getting home. Thank you again for another delightful afternoon. Same time, next week?"

"Of course. I look forward to it, as always."

I offer her my arm, relishing her touch, foolishly believing it will sustain me until the next time we meet. We walk in silence the short distance to the street corner where we usually part company. Her boarding house is just a few buildings down and I always insist on walking her to the door, but for some reason, she declines.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Cullen," she says, letting go of my arm with a smile and a nod of her head.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Black," I return, already missing her desperately.

Watching her walk up the street, emptiness fills me. I don't know how much longer I can do this.

Just as she's about to climb the steps to her residence, the sun comes out behind me. It makes the retreating storm clouds in front of me even blacker. Isabella turns to wave goodbye. The sight of her ivory clad figure contrasts vividly with the dark, angry clouds.

She's a vision and I can't let her go.

"Isabella!" I shout, her given name spilling from my tongue, sounding even more beautiful when spoken aloud.

I run to where she's standing, waiting for me. Her eyes are bright and her smile is warm. Reaching out, I boldly grasp her hand.

She doesn't recoil from my touch; her fingers fold around my own.

"Isabella," I repeat, my eyes blazing into hers.

She doesn't look away, so after months of yearning, my request bursts forth.

"Sit for me. Let me paint you."

* * *

**Thank you for reading.**


	6. May

**_Twilight_ and its characters are owned by Stephenie Meyer.**

**My love to arfalcon for her support and expertise. She is amazing and tireless. Also, much thanks to MeilleurCafe for recommending this story over at A Different Forest and to LJ Summers for fielding my art questions. **

* * *

**~May~**

Green.

Rustling leaves above and cool grass below. Everywhere I look, nature's most soothing color surrounds me, helping to settle my nerves and calm my excitement.

Today, I'm painting Isabella. Or perhaps sketching; I haven't decided yet. I've brought my pastels and pencils, so I'll choose whatever feels right when we begin.

I think back to last week when I let down my guard and begged her to sit for me. Instead of the polite refusal I was sure I would receive, she had said yes...

_"Sit for me. Let me paint you."_

_Isabella's eyes widen._

_"Mr. Cullen—" _

_I take the next step up, bringing myself to her eye level._

_"Edward. Please call me Edward. Is it too forward of me to consider us well enough acquainted to call each other by our given names?"_

_"No, not at all," she says, her hand still gripping mine, her gaze pulling me forward._

_I climb the last two steps, towering over her now. _

_"I rarely find such an inspiring subject. Please say yes." _

_Our hands are still clasped, pressed between our bodies. I'm closer to her than I've ever been. She smells and feels magnificent._

_"Yes," she whispers. "Yes, I would be honored to sit for you," she says, louder, smiling._

_"It's you who does me the honor, Isabella," I say, savoring her name._

_She's staring at me. She's so damned vulnerable. My perfect prey._

_I need to pull back, but I'm compelled to push forward._

_My gaze still locked on hers, I raise her hands to my lips and press a gentle kiss upon her knuckles. Her eyes flutter shut for the briefest of moments and it's only the movement of the curtains from the window behind us that prevents me from bestowing her with another._

_Releasing her hands, I retreat to the sidewalk._

_"Would you be able to meet me by the pond in the park next Tuesday? If the weather doesn't cooperate, we can still meet in the library. I can sketch you there if necessary, but I would prefer to paint you en plein air."_

_"Of course." She casts a quick glance behind her. "I'll see you at our usual time then?"_

_"I look forward to it," I say with a bow. "Have a pleasant evening, Isabella."_

_"Goodbye, Edward," she says with a timid smile and it's the sound of my name from her lips that sustains me through the rest of the week…_

A pair of squawking crows interrupts my thoughts, jolting me back to the present.

The location I've chosen for our first session is set apart from the rest of the park by overgrown shrubs and closely spaced trees. A wisteria-laden arbor is the only indication something resides within: a solitary park bench. It's a perfect meeting place for lovers hoping to steal a few precious—and private—moments with each other; I only hope none seek it out today.

Today it's going to be our secret.

Looking up, I admire the canopy of oaks, evergreens and maples. Dappled sunlight filters through, casting dancing patterns on the gravel path at my feet. The smell of pine is a comfort and I breathe in, filling my lungs with the earthy scent.

It's not the only scent I detect; Isabella is near. My body comes alive with anticipation.

I can't wait to see her, to pose her on this bench, to touch her and position her just the way I want. To finally capture her likeness in the flesh, rather than from my mind.

My own living, breathing muse.

With my French easel hanging from my shoulder, I duck out from under the cascading blooms and make my way to the pond.

She's already there, an angel in pure white, staring into the water, much like she was when I first laid eyes on her that cold January day.

A smile spreads across my face as I hurry toward her, eager to be near her again.

Isabella turns and when she sees me, smiles and raises her hand in greeting.

I feel breathless when I finally reach her side.

"Isabella," I say, bowing my head. I want to kiss her hand, but I don't. I smile instead. "It's a pleasure to see you again."

And smell you. Your scent is particularly alluring today.

"Edward, it's wonderful to see you, too," she says, holding her hand up to her eyes, shielding them from the midday sun.

"Thank you for agreeing to sit for me. I've been looking forward to our session every day for the past week," I say.

Months, actually…

"As have I," she says, followed by a sigh. "Unfortunately, my time is limited this afternoon." Her eyes lower to the ground.

I don't want our day to start off badly, so I hide my disappointment. "In that case, shall we get started? I don't want to waste a single minute of the time we do have together."

"Oh yes, let's!" she says excitedly. I'm carrying my easel on my right side, so I offer her my left arm as we walk. When she takes it, I savor her warmth through my sleeve, instantly stimulated by the effect it has on me. I can only imagine what it might feel like to have more of her body touch my own.

Isabella's nervous chatter draws me from my lurid thoughts.

"I've never sat for a portrait before. I wasn't sure what to wear, so I chose this simple dress," she says, gesturing to her attire.

"It's perfect," I say, looking down at her. "The dress is not as important as the subject. And in this case, the subject is beautiful, no matter what she wears."

Isabella tightens her grip on my arm. "Buttering up the subject, Edward? There's no need for excessive compliments, I've already agreed to sit for you," she says lightly.

I stop, turning her to face me. "I don't offer idle flattery. It's you I want to paint. You. No one else."

My words border on possessive. I look forward to her blush at their insinuation but she doesn't—she merely studies my face until I feel as if _I _could blush.

"Thank you, Edward. I appreciate your honesty. Now then, what will we be using as a studio today?"

"Ah, you'll see in a few minutes. It's a beautiful sitting area, a bit isolated from the rest of the park. It's quite private, so we shouldn't be disturbed."

Isabella nods in understanding. "A secret hideaway? It sounds charming. How did you find it?"

"I'm always on the lookout for inspiring places to paint or draw. I stumbled upon it by accident one day, just walking. If a rabbit hadn't run out from the bushes, I might have missed it."

I don't tell her it wasn't a rabbit that called my attention to the well-hidden entrance, but rather the smell of blood and sex. I don't tell her that, curiosity piqued, I secretly watched the young couple as they fornicated. I don't tell her I want to do those same things with her.

When we reach our destination, I pull back the overgrown forsythia branches, revealing the arbor just beyond. Isabella looks at me curiously before I gesture for her to go ahead. She ducks underneath the branches and I follow.

"It's just through the arbor," I say and with Isabella in the lead, we disappear into the wisteria blooms.

Watching Isabella's reaction as she takes in our surroundings makes me smile. I had hoped she would like the spot and judging by her expression, she does.

"Oh, Edward," she says, walking behind the bench and resting her hands on its back. "I absolutely love it. It's so quiet and soothing. No wonder you like it so much." She looks around again, her eyes wide with appreciation. "I see why it inspires you."

Now that she's here, it's taken on a whole new layer of beauty.

I hold out my hand to her. "Come, Isabella. Sit."

Isabella takes my hand and I lead her around to the front of the bench. She sits and brushes away a few stray wisteria petals that are attached to her dress. She reaches up to her hat, but suddenly hesitates.

"Should I take off my hat?" she asks.

"Leave it on for now," I reply. "I might have time to do a second piece with it off, but we'll see how the first painting goes."

I've decided to do a pastel first, and if time permits, a pencil sketch.

Isabella sits quietly while I set up my easel. Opening the attached paint box, I retrieve a book from beneath my supplies.

"Since you're so passionate about literature, I thought a portrait of you on this bench reading a book would be perfect. I hope you like what I've chosen for you," I say, handing her the book, waiting for her reaction.

When she sees the title, she laughs.

"_Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_? Edward, it's perfect! You really do know what I like, don't you?"

"I suspected you might enjoy it," I say, smiling broadly, congratulating myself on my selection.

Isabella strokes first the spine, then the cover of the book before opening it and flipping through the pages. I take the opportunity to study her and decide how I want to position her: straight on or seated slightly to the side. I admire her hands and think of how I want them to hold the book. Her hat will remain on, so her hair won't be an issue—although a few wispy strands falling around her face would be very pretty. My professional assessment suddenly turns to ardent admiration as I take in her long, dark lashes, the smattering of freckles across her nose and the creaminess of her skin. She's beautiful and she's real and she's here with me now.

Clearing my head, I get back to the task of positioning her for the portrait. She's sitting very formally; I don't care for it. It's not how I ever imagine her.

"Isabella," I say gently, "would you turn to the left for me? Just a little."

With her eyes still on her book, she shifts slightly.

"Good. Now lean back a bit, against the back of the bench." She does as I ask. "Excellent. Are you comfortable? Do you think you can sit like that for a little while?"

Finally dragging her attention from the book, she looks up at me. Smiling, she says, "I'm sitting in a little piece of paradise with a good book and even better company. I could stay here all day."

Hearing her admit that she enjoys my company makes my chest tighten. It's been decades since anyone has said that to me.

"Thank you, but you might change your mind after a few hours," I say.

She laughs and returns to her book while I plan my final adjustments. She's holding the book in her left hand, but I need to position her right arm.

"Isabella, I need you to move your right arm down just a bit."

She does, but not quite where I need it.

"Pull it in toward your body."

Again, she complies, but it's still not right.

"May I?" I ask.

She nods.

Crouching on my knees in front of her, I brace myself for the thrill of touching her. When I do, the warmth feels incredible. I take her elbow in one hand and her fingers in the other, moving her arm into the position I want. I let go of her elbow, but am hesitant to release her fingers. Slowly, I drape them across the middle of her thigh, my own fingers lingering far too long, but unable to stop myself.

Her pulse accelerates and her breathing stutters. I lift my eyes to hers. She's no longer reading her book, she's watching me. Emboldened by her reaction, my gaze returns to where our hands still rest atop her leg, then moves up to the swell of her breasts, lingers briefly on her delicate throat, continues past her lips until finally settling on her eyes. I reach up to her face to pull a few locks of hair out from under her hat, sliding the strands between my fingers, marveling at their softness. I smooth them against her cheeks, then fluff them out again until they're just as I want. Isabella closes her eyes and it seems as if she's leaning into my touch. We're inches apart, her sweet breath fanning across my face, making me dizzy with desire.

"Will you be able to hold this position until I complete my rough sketch? It shouldn't take long," I say quietly, my fingers still stroking her hair. I move one hand to her hat and pluck away a few petals from the fabric, watching as they float to the ground.

Her lips are slightly parted; the urge to kiss her is strong.

She nods and I pull back quickly, not trusting myself to stop at a kiss. "Perfect," I say. Isabella lets out a breath and opens her eyes. I think I see disappointment on her face, but I dare not get my hopes up.

Standing, I walk back to my easel. My hands are shaking as I fumble through my paint box, searching for my charcoal.

"Are you ready to begin?" I ask, referring to the painting, but hoping for much more.

After a brief pause, her mouth turns up in a hint of a provocative smile. "Yes, Edward, I'm finally ready for you," she replies.

The implication nearly undoes me. A rush of venom releases into my throat and I swallow it down, willing myself to focus.

Isabella returns her attention to her book and when she touches her finger to a page, I move my charcoal to the canvas.

Our dance begins.

* * *

The afternoon passes by quickly. For the most part, it's quiet, with Isabella engrossed in the book, pausing every now and then to comment on something a character said or a scene she particularly enjoyed.

I concentrate on my work, tracing, shading and blending until I'm staring at two Isabellas: the one I can keep with me forever and the one I'm not sure I can ever have, but whom I so desperately want.

When I show her the finished portrait, she seems delighted.

"Edward, it's exquisite! The colors are lush and the lines are so soft. I'm impressed with how you've captured both my likeness and the serenity of this hidden nook."

"So you're pleased with it?"

"I'm more than pleased—I adore it." She turns her head to me. "The moment I saw a few of your pieces in Mr. Elkins' shop, I was captivated. I'm even more so now that I've seen you work. Thank you for showing me a bit of your world and for including me in your art."

My passion for her bursts forth before I can think better of it.

"Isabella, I should be thanking you. Art is nothing without inspiration and you have stirred something deep inside me. I've painted countless landscapes over the years. Since I've met you, they all seem empty, flat and colorless. I want to throw them all away and start anew, this time with your likeness filling my canvas with life and color."

My impassioned speech has silenced her. Seconds seem like minutes before she speaks, her voice wavering.

"That is by far the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me."

"I meant every word."

"I believe you," she says, reaching out and touching my cheek. Warmth washes though me and I'm about to take her in my arms when she pulls her hand away.

"Do you have the time?" she asks.

I pull out my pocket watch. "Twenty past three."

"Oh dear, I'm going to be late. I must get going."

"Certainly. Let me pack up and we'll be on our way."

I quickly collect my supplies and collapse my easel. Isabella offers to carry her portrait and after I show her how to handle the canvas, we leave our secret spot and make our way back through the park.

Her pace is brisk and the walk home is spent in silence. I can't help but wonder if I frightened her with my confession.

When we reach the steps to her house, Isabella turns to face me.

"Thank you, Edward. I will treasure this afternoon for—"

She's interrupted by the opening of the door at the top of the stairs. A portly woman steps out, a sour look carved into her round face.

"Mrs. Black, you're late. When I say I need you to be here at half-past three, I mean half-past three and not three forty-five. Kindly finish your business and come inside."

"Yes, Mrs. Cope. I'm terribly sorry. It won't happen again," Isabella says.

"See that it doesn't," Mrs. Cope replies. With a swish of her ample skirts, she storms back into the house, slamming the door behind her.

"Edward, I'm sorry, but I have to go," Isabella says miserably.

"I understand," I say. "Will you be alright?" I want to ask who this woman is to her, but if she wants to tell me, she will.

"Yes, I'll be fine. Thank you again for another lovely afternoon, as well as my portrait."

She turns to leave, but I grab her hand and stop her.

"When can I see you again? I never did get a chance to sketch you without your hat on."

"I think I'll be able to get away again next Tuesday. It depends on Mrs. Cope; she's been working me hard lately."

"Working you hard?" I ask. "What—"

"I'll explain next week. I'll see you then?"

"I look forward to it," I say, pulling her hand to my lips for a kiss. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the curtains part and Mrs. Cope's face staring out at us.

"Goodbye, Edward," Isabella says, pulling her hand away and running up the steps, portrait in tow.

* * *

At home, I'm anxious and unable to settle. I hunt, but it does little to quell my restlessness. I'm not in the mood to paint or read. I pace around my room, replaying every moment of my afternoon with Isabella. How she squints a bit while she's reading. How the wisps of hair around her face felt when I touched them and how they looked when the breeze caught them. How she sometimes bites her bottom lip when she's concentrating. How I would like to take her plump bottom lip between my own…

I wonder what she would have done if I had kissed her. Would she have recoiled in fear—or worse, disgust? Or would she have kissed me back? Would she have parted those plump lips and welcomed me in?

I'm painfully aroused and feeling incredibly feral. Hurtling out the door, I sprint through the woods, ignoring the abundance of prey at my disposal. I run until I reach the next town, until I smell what I need in a dark alley on a deserted street.

A man emerges from the shadows, fastening his trousers. When he sees me, he grins and hitches his thumb toward the alley.

"If you don't mind a bit of buttered bun, she's in there, mate," he says, laughing and heading up the street.

I walk into the narrow alley and find her slumped against the wall next to a pile of wooden crates. The dim glow from the street light just reaches her and when she sees me approaching, she stands.

"'Ello, love," she says. "Fancy a bit o' prigging tonight?"

I slowly stalk toward her, redness starting to seep into the corner of my vision.

"Me name's Lucy and I'm from England," she says. When I don't respond, she continues. "Not one for talking, hey? "S'alright, I won't hold it against you," she says, cackling.

I'm directly in front of her now and she reaches out, dragging her finger down the front of my trousers.

"Ooh, you're a real looker, ain't you? Well, you don't have to worry, I may not be much to look at, but I promise you, I've a pretty little cunny."

"Well, Lucy from England, I don't really care what your cunny looks like, as long as it's wet and ready for me," I say harshly, as I wrap my hands around her filthy hair.

She hums in approval and I spin her around violently, pushing her against the wall. Fumbling with my trousers, I shove her skirts up and she braces herself against the bricks.

I see red everywhere, even when I close my eyes. I'm just about to push into her when a vision of Isabella materializes in my mind. The red haze vanishes immediately. Lucy is wiggling her backside at me, inviting me in, but I suddenly find myself no longer interested in her commodities. I stumble back and tuck myself in.

She looks at me over her shoulder. "What's a matter, love, a bit piss-proud tonight, are we? I can take care of that for you, you know," she says, leering at my crotch and licking her lips.

"I've changed my mind, Lucy from England, but here's something for your trouble," I say and press a five dollar gold coin into her hand.

"Blimey! Thank you sir, come back and see me anytime!" she yells as I retreat into the night.

* * *

Once home, I flop into my chair in the parlor. I'm mentally exhausted and for the first time in as long as I can remember, physically tired as well. I wish I could sleep; it would be so welcome right now.

If I could sleep, I could dream and if I could dream, I would be human. A man who could court Isabella properly, who could make love to her without fear of harming her, who could give her children and make her happy.

Grow old with her.

But I'm not human, so I sit, frozen in place until dawn breaks.

I remain still. The start of a new day means nothing when it doesn't include Isabella.

* * *

**Thank you so much for reading. **

**A few end notes:**

En plein air - French expression meaning "in the open air" ; in this case, the act of painting outdoors. Popularized in the late 1800's by the Impressionists.

French easel - a type of easel used while painting en plein air. Contains an attached paint box to hold supplies and collapses for portability.

Having a buttered bun - Victorian slang for engaging in sexual intercourse with a woman who's just been with another man.

Prigging - Victorian slang for sexual intercourse.

Cunny - self-explanatory, I hope. :-)

Piss-proud - Victorian slang for having a false or unsturdy erection.

More slang can be found at www(dot)mookychick(dot)co(dot)uk, under "How To".


	7. June

**_Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer.**

**A million thanks to arfalcon. She makes everything better. **

**Twelve Months was one of the featured stories on last week's PPSS Lemon Report. Thanks to Emmy for the review!**

* * *

**~June~**

Silver.

The glow of the moon bathes the meadow with its light. Creatures of all kinds are about, exposed by the lunar show.

Lying back in the tall grass, I'm hypnotized by the luminosity.

My thoughts are reflective, much like the shine of the moon.

Am I really as terrible a monster as I believe? Is it possible that I'm not so different from the man I used to be?

I haven't killed a human being since shortly after my change. I hunt innocent creatures to survive, but so do humans. I crave blood; they crave flesh.

I would kill a human if it was necessary to survive—but so would most humans, I wager.

I paint, I read, I listen to music.

I breathe. I feel.

I crave love and companionship like an ordinary man.

Would Isabella be able to see me as one?

Do I have the courage to ask?

Would she have the stomach to answer?

I continue to stare at the moon, searching for answers until it disappears into the blush of dawn.

I haven't seen Isabella for several weeks and I miss her terribly. Considering Mrs. Cope's harsh words when Isabella and I last parted, I wasn't surprised when she didn't show up the following week. Still, I'd wandered the streets aimlessly, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, but to no avail.

I threw myself into painting and drawing and when that didn't help fill the void, I hunted mercilessly, drinking myself into a stupor.

The ache burrowed deeper.

A trip to Mr. Elkins' store for art supplies gave me reason to hope—a note from Isabella. She briefly explained that Mrs. Cope had been keeping her extremely busy, how much she missed our time together and that she was assured of an afternoon to herself on the following Tuesday. With the note tucked in my pocket, I returned home a different man.

Tomorrow is Tuesday and I pray I see her. She promised to explain her arrangement with Mrs. Cope.

I hope she'll confide all her secrets to me.

Maybe it's time I spilled some of mine.

* * *

The day turns overcast, the clouds low and threatening rain. I'm waiting for Isabella in our secret spot, sketchbook in hand.

I hope she's able to get away this afternoon; the thought of waiting another week to see her is unbearable. I haven't met her formally, but Mrs. Cope seems like a nasty sort, making me want to stalk the boarding house every day and night to ensure Isabella's well-being.

I'd foolishly entertained the thought of offering my house as a place for her to stay if her current accommodations were no longer suitable. I even went so far as to tidy up the spare bedroom, running into town to purchase new bed linens and other items I thought she might need.

Preparing the room was a pleasant distraction, despite how aware I was of its folly. Still, I pictured Isabella sitting in the chair by the window, reading a book by the soft glow of the oil lamp. I imagined her sitting at the dressing table in her chemise, brushing out her hair. I fantasized about us lying in bed as if we were man and wife...

The crunch of footsteps on gravel draws me back to the present. Standing, I walk to the wisteria arbor, parting the faded blossoms just as Isabella bursts through, running straight into me, her hands slamming into my chest. I catch her and we both laugh, hers more beautiful than any symphony I've ever heard.

"I seem to be making a habit out of running into you," she says. "What must you think of me?"

"I believe I was the one who ran into you last time. Pushed you, rather," I say, alluding to the incident involving the automobile. Encircling her wrists with my left hand, I prevent her from pulling back. "And I think the world of you."

Neither of us move. We're standing still, looking at each other. Tension floats between us.

"I suppose we're all squared up then," she says.

"I suppose we are," I reply, reaching up to brush the petals from her hair. Smiling, I gently drag my fingers down her cheek, delighting in the slight flush they elicit. I pull her entrapped wrists to my lips, painfully tempted to lick at the beautiful blue veins that lie just below her wafer-thin skin. Instead, I turn her hands over slowly and place a lingering kiss on the back of one hand before releasing her.

Isabella appears a bit flustered—a natural consequence of being so close to someone of my kind.

Attract. Seduce. Fuck. Drink. It's a heady game, one which I've avoided for decades, but so help me God, she tempts me; she brings out the beast in me.

The gentleman inside claws his way to the surface and the beast is tamed—for now.

"Please, have a seat," I say, guiding her to our bench.

"Where is your easel?" she asks. "I thought we were meeting for another portrait session."

"We are. I only brought my sketchbook today in case the weather turns," I reply, nodding to the sky.

Isabella looks up, frowning when she notices the thickening clouds. "I didn't even take notice. I was in too much of hurry to get out of the house," she says with a sigh.

"Don't worry, I'm prepared," I say, gesturing to the umbrella propped against the back of the bench next to my leather satchel.

"Thank goodness one of us is thinking. I've been so distracted lately."

As have I, my lovely girl.

"Isabella, I know we've only been acquainted for a few months, but I want you to know you can feel free to speak your mind with me. If something is burdening you—"

"I know, Edward, I know I can. And I will, but can we start the session first? I think it might help me to relax and collect my thoughts."

"Of course, anything you want. Let me grab my sketchbook."

Reaching for my bag, I slide it over to my feet and retrieve my sketchbook and charcoal stick. I'm only going to sketch her shoulders and head today, so unfortunately, I won't have the opportunity to touch her as much as last week.

She takes off her hat, placing it on the bench between us. Her eyes are far away and dreamy as she reaches up, plucking away the pins that hold her chignon to the back of her head; it falls in a wave down her back, exactly as I'd always imagined, with the added benefit of an intoxicating aroma.

Isabella glances over and catches me staring at her. She misunderstands the intensity of my gaze, asking "Should I have kept my hair up? I thought last week you wanted to sketch me without my hat, so I assumed you wanted my hair down."

"I do. Your hair is beautiful. You should wear it loose more often."

Picking up my book, I begin the sketch.

"I would like that very much. It would be so much easier than twisting and pulling and pinning every morning. Ah, to be free of societal obligations!" she says in mock annoyance.

"I've never really cared much for the rules of so-called society," I say.

The charcoal in my hand traces the contours of her face onto my paper.

"Truthfully, neither do I. Unfortunately there are times when we have to abide by the rules."

I form the delicate curve of her neck and shoulders. No need to play word games.

"Are you referring to your arrangement with Mrs. Cope?" I ask.

My thumb softly smudges the outline of her bottom lip.

"I am," she says.

"Are you at liberty to discuss this arrangement?"

Glancing up from my work, I find her eyeing me curiously.

"I promised, didn't I?"

"You did."

Her eyes come to life under the touch of my stick.

Pausing for a few minutes, she stares up at the grey clouds, lost in thought. I work quickly to finish, wanting to give her my full attention when she's ready to continue.

She turns back to me just as I'm blending the last locks of her hair.

Without saying a word, I turn the completed sketch toward her. She studies it for a few seconds, her expression devoid of emotion.

"My eyes...I look so unhappy. Do I really seem that way to you?" she asks.

"No, not usually. I capture what I see at that moment. Today I saw sadness," I reply.

She nods.

"I'm sorry it's not to your liking," I say, disappointed.

"That's not true, Edward! I love that you paint and draw what you see, what you feel. It's real—just like you."

Oh, I'm not real, Isabella, and I'm too much of a coward to tell you so. But I'm trying.

Placing the sketch on the bench beside me, I turn to face her.

"Will you tell me about Mrs. Cope?"

She smiles weakly and says, "Yes, I think it's about time I did."

Drawing in a breath, she begins. "Mrs. Cope owns the boarding house in which I'm staying. Rather, Mr. Cope owns it; Mrs. Cope is in charge of running it. When I first came into town, I stopped in Mr. Elkins' shop, inquiring about lodging and he directed me there."

"Mrs. Cope was very kind and sympathetic to my plight—a young widow with no other family. I had some money, but she refused to take it. She let me stay for free in exchange for helping around the house: light housekeeping, running errands, playing with her children, things of that nature. She said I could stay as long as I like. I've appreciated her kindness and generosity, but, it's just..."

She looks frightened. I don't like it.

"It's Mr. Cope," she says quietly. "He's always looking at me. He rarely says a word to me, nor do I to him. The way he stares at me—it makes me uncomfortable."

My stomach roils. Anger courses through me.

"Has he said anything improper to you? Touched you inappropriately?" I barely manage to choke out the last words.

"No, not at all. His attention is strictly from afar, but it still unnerves me. I suspect Mrs. Cope has noticed. She's become distant and harsh. I don't know why she doesn't just sack me; in fact, I'm expecting it. I think she's just keeping me around as a means of free labor. She's recently started to make snide comments about the time I spend with you. I don't know how she found out—or why she cares—but she's insinuated I'll taint my reputation by keeping company with the likes of such an eccentric gentleman."

My hands tighten into fists and I stand, pacing around the bench like a madman.

"Ha! At least she called me a gentleman," I say.

I haven't felt this much anger in years. Not for myself; I could care less what that witch of a woman thinks about me. I'm angry at her treatment of Isabella.

"Edward? Are you alright?" Isabella asks.

Swinging around, I'm about to scream that I'm most definitely _not _alright, but then I see her face and it stops me cold.

Fear. Right now, she's frightened of me.

She trusted me and I've betrayed her with my anger.

Swallowing down my rage, I return to my seat and beg for her forgiveness.

"Isabella, please forgive my outburst. I feel very protective of you and to hear you tell me this is extremely upsetting. You can't stay there another night!"

"I don't have any other choice at the moment!"

"You do have a choice. Stay with me."

Her eyes widen in shock. "Edward, no, I couldn't."

"I have more than enough room. You would be completely free to come and go as you please."

"I don't know. People might talk," she says, wringing her hands, evidence that the seed Mrs. Cope planted has taken root.

Shame wells up in me, but I press on.

"Isabella, we live in a large town, I doubt many would notice let alone care," I say, trying to convince her otherwise.

She contemplates this for a few moments before answering. "You're probably right. I just don't want to be a burden—although I do seem to excel at it," she says.

Her words sound bitter and stab at my heart. I understand the meaning behind them: she's as lonely as I am.

"Oh, Isabella," I say, falling to my knees in front of her, grasping her hands. "You could never be a burden to me. I've become very fond of you and I only want your happiness. Won't you at least consider it?"

Her smile is genuine. "Yes, yes, of course I'll consider it." She pulls one of her hands from my grip and touches my cheek; I lean into her warmth.

"My knight in shining armor," she says and my insides twist at her declaration.

"My lady," I say with an exaggerated flourish. Isabella giggles and bats her eyes dramatically.

A rumble of thunder in the distance spoils our game. Raindrops start to fall, signaling the end to our day.

I return my sketchbook to my bag while Isabella hastily pins up her hair. By the time we emerge from the bushes, it's drizzling enough to warrant the umbrella. I open it and move it over to better shield Isabella. She presses herself close to my side and while I'm fairly certain it's only to avoid the rain, I'm deliriously happy.

My happiness is short-lived. As soon as we leave the park and approach the street to the boarding house, my mood turns sour.

I stop a few houses from hers. Turning her to me, I make one final plea.

"Isabella, is there nothing I can say to persuade you otherwise? I hate leaving you here, knowing—"

I don't finish because she places her fingers on my mouth, silencing me.

"I'll be fine. I promise." Pulling her hand away, she smiles before standing on her toes and kissing my cheek. The summer rain has deepened her scent and I feel as if I'm drowning. Not caring who might be watching, I reach around her with my free hand, splaying my fingers across her back and gently pull her against me. She trembles when my lips graze her ear; the movement excites me.

"Don't go," I whisper.

Isabella melts into me, her face pressed into my neck, her breath hot against my wanting skin.

"Only for a little while," she says.

I reluctantly release her and hand her the umbrella, but she refuses my offer. She walks backward in the gentle rain for a few steps, smiling broadly, an attempt to reassure me of her well-being.

"Next Tuesday, yes?" she says.

"Tuesday," I say, nodding.

She turns and hurries the short distance to the front door. Once she's inside, I walk back down the street but I don't leave; I disappear into the shadows of a nearby alley where I stay all night, watching, listening. When dawn breaks, I hide in the safety of the adjacent woods, only to return at dusk to my hiding place across the street.

Other than a few trips to my house to hunt and change clothes, I stay near the boarding house the rest of the week, secretly watching over Isabella.

Home is wherever she is.

* * *

Tuesday morning breaks hazy and hot. I make my way to my house for a fresh change of clothes and to collect my art supplies. I have in mind to paint Isabella beside the pond in the center of the park, hoping the proximity to the water might help to keep her cool.

The park is bustling with activity. Children play near the pond, some of them launching sailboats crafted from sticks into the water while others try to skip stones across the still surface. Mothers and nannies keep a close eye on their children while chatting with each other. It's a pleasant scene and I'm uncharacteristically off guard when I hear my name being called in the distance.

Isabella is walking briskly toward me, waving madly. When she reaches me, she's flushed and slightly out of breath.

"Isabella, are you feeling well? You look overheated," I say.

"I'm fine, Edward," she says. "I'm so excited, I have wonderful news!" A sheen of sweat glistens on her face and I'm afraid she might faint.

"Come sit and tell me," I say, taking her hand and leading her to a shaded patch of ground away from the crowd.

She curls down and sits, gathering her breath before reclining on the grass.

I walk over to the pond's edge and dip my handkerchief in, squeezing out the excess water before returning to Isabella. She doesn't protest when I hold the cool compress against her forehead, nor does she stop me when I dab each of her cheeks. Her eyes close as I trail the damp cloth down her neck, pressing it gently at her skin until I reach her exposed collarbone. My fingertips rest in the hollow of her throat and I can feel her pulse pounding frantically beneath. I close my eyes, the sensation overwhelming. The intensifies sweetens her fragrance and quickens the beat of her heart. All I want to do is drag her to our secret spot, strip her of her clothes and slide against her damp skin. A baser part of me wishes she was a whore so I could do just that and feel no shame or remorse, only unbridled pleasure.

"Thank you, Edward, you're so kind to me," Isabella says and I open my eyes and close my thoughts.

"You need to be careful in this heat," I say. "I have a canteen of water in my bag; you should take a drink."

She sits up and I hand her the canteen, looking away when I see her throat muscles work as she gulps greedily.

"Thank you," she says. Isabella returns the canteen and I toss it on the ground beside me. "Now then, what's this news you're so eager to share?"

Her face lights up. "The Copes are closing the boarding house next week for the Independence Day holiday. Mr. Cope has business in the city, so the whole family is going with him. They're staying with Mrs. Cope's sister and will remain there for the entire month of July. She told me I had to stay behind to help mind the house. Mr. Harrington, the old groundskeeper will be there and Mrs. Purcell, the cook, will stop in every few days, but other than that, I'm free for an entire month. Free!" She hugs herself and flops back to the ground, smiling broadly.

I should be concerned about her staying alone for a month in the boarding house with only a feeble gardener to watch over her, but her happiness is contagious and I find myself grinning like a fool as well.

"That is good news, Isabella. I'm both happy and relieved to hear it. Maybe you can use the time to secure new lodgings?" I say, lying down next to her.

She turns her head to look at me. "Maybe I will. I won't have to be back by three-thirty every day. I can stay out all night if I choose."

"You most certainly will not. There are all sorts of unsavory creatures who prowl the streets at night."

I should know.

"I realize that, of course. I was merely trying to make a point," she says.

"So was I," I say grimly.

"But I'll have you to protect me," she says brightly. "We could meet every day if you'd like, at the library or here in the park."

I roll to my side, propping myself up on my arm. "Mrs. Cope won't have her spies out in full force, watching our every move?" I say, teasing.

Isabella huffs a breath and sits up. "I suppose we'll just have to outwit them."

"I'm very good at stealth, Isabella," I say, looking up at her, my words thick with insinuation.

"And I'm a quick learner," she says, giving it right back to me.

God, I want her. Does she realize the dangerous game she's playing? My resolve is threadbare—this upcoming month may shred it completely.

Before I can craft a response, Isabella stands, wiping the grass from her dress. "I'm afraid I have to go. I have to stop by the tailor to pick up a few dresses. I'm sorry our time has been so short this afternoon, but the Copes are leaving on Thursday, so I'll be able to meet you then."

Standing, I take her hands in mine. "May I call on you at the boarding house?"

Isabella shakes her head. "I'd rather we meet here in the park. The park is ours, Edward. They can't take that away from us," she says, her voice fierce with determination.

The park is ours—four simple words that mean more to me than she could know.

It's difficult to find my voice, but I do.

"Shall I walk with you to the tailor?"

"Thank you, Edward, but that's not necessary. It's a lovely day. Why don't you stay here and paint me a picture?" she says, nodding to my easel.

"What would you like?" I ask.

"Surprise me," she says with a smile, dropping my hands and taking her leave. I watch her until she's out of sight.

As I set up my easel, I think about what I want to paint.

And it comes to me.

I want to paint the two of us, together.

Sitting on our bench, in our secret spot behind the wisteria arbor.

So I do.

_The park is ours._

* * *

**A/N: **Several people have asked me about the time and location of this story. Timewise, I'm thinking around 1910-ish. The location I have in my mind is somewhere north, heavily forested and with cold, snowy winters. The rest I leave to your imagination. :-)

Thank you for reading.


	8. July

_**Twilight **_**and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. **

**As always, thanks to arfalcon for everything she does for me. xo**

* * *

**~July~**

Violet.

Amethyst, regal and rich against my pale skin.

Stone against stone.

I place the necklace back into the small box, nestling it between rings and hat pins and brooches.

My mother's jewelry is all that remains of my past life. On the last day of my mortal existence, I was returning from my father's bank in the city, where at his request, I'd retrieved several pieces from his safety deposit box.

I never made it home.

When I awoke, I was no longer human, yet alive with heightened senses.

But dying of thirst.

Whoever changed me valued my blood more than the jewels; the pouch was still secure in the bag slung across my body.

I used to wonder what my parents thought after I failed to return home. How long did they search for me? Did they mourn the loss of their only son or did they feel betrayed by my sudden disappearance? The horror and shame at what I had become was enough to drive me far away, never to see them again.

Tormented by the knowledge of how they must have suffered—how I must have disappointed them—I channeled my guilt and rage into my insatiable need for human blood.

The blood from my unfortunate victims was a temporary distraction. It only deepened my self-loathing, perpetuating a vicious cycle I thought impossible to break. Years later, after discovering the salvation of animal blood, I was finally able to return home and make peace with my parents—at their gravesites.

As my mind wanders through long-suppressed memories, my fingers sift through the baubles. My eyes are drawn again to the deep purple of the amethyst pendant. I pick it up once more, admiring how the gem absorbs the sun's rays before its facets splinter them into prisms of sparkling light.

It's a pretty jewel, reminding me of the warm and loving woman my mother was. It would be fitting to pass it on to someone equally special.

Isabella.

The Copes will have left by now for their trip to Boston. For the next several weeks, I'll be able to see Isabella as often as she wishes.

I desperately want to be alone with her.

Alone, at night, in a house with low lights and dark corners, using only our hands and mouths and breathing to guide us.

Alone, in the morning sunshine, hovering over her as she's sprawled across her bed, her skin flushed with desire, baring both her body and her soul to me.

Paradise.

But until that moment comes—if it ever comes—I'll be content with crowded parks and public libraries.

As long as she's by my side.

* * *

Our first meeting without the constraint of time is in the park. Isabella has packed a picnic lunch and I help her lay it out on the gingham blanket, commenting enthusiastically over the contents. While I'll be able to consume the food, I won't enjoy her efforts.

Fortunately, I'm a good liar; she'll never know I'll vomit it up later.

Our conversation is light and playful. We're sitting close. Every now and then our arms brush against each other. The heat of the day has intensified her scent; I still find myself hungering to taste her.

Images of flowing blood, naked skin and soft moans invade my mind.

I'd like to kiss her lips until they're red and throbbing. Nip at her bottom lip, just enough for her sweet blood to ooze onto my tongue and set me on fire. I'd like to disappear under her skirts and taste a different kind of sweetness…

I need a quick distraction from my vivid fantasy of blood and sex. Isabella is packing up the basket. I ask the first question that comes to mind, one I've been longing to ask.

"How did you end up here?"

Isabella's hands pause momentarily before continuing her task.

"You certainly are direct," she says, glancing at me quickly before pushing the basket aside.

I sense by the tone of her voice she's not put out by my inquiry.

"I want to know you, Isabella. If you'll allow me."

She nods. "I want you to know me."

Dangerous words, laden with innuendo. I lick my lips in anticipation.

Isabella draws her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around her legs.

"My father, Charles Swan, was the minister of the largest church in the town in which we lived. In public, he was a loving and compassionate leader of his congregation, but in private he was a cruel man. He was disappointed I was a girl and blamed my mother for not producing any more children. He constantly reminded me I was female, put on God's earth to serve man and spared no mercy with the strap.

My mother tried to stop him, many times, but he just turned around and hit her as well. He tried to break her spirit, but she wouldn't bend. I begged her to take me and run away. She kept telling me as soon as she could save up a bit more money, we would leave. She did odd jobs on the side, without my father's knowledge, of course. By the time she had a decent amount put away, she fell ill with tuberculosis. My father sent her away to an asylum and I never saw her again. Two months later, I overheard him telling our neighbor, Mr. Black, that she had died and he was praying to God to send him a new wife."

Isabella pauses and I want to offer some sort of physical comfort. Something more tangible than words; I place my hand on her knee.

One thing of which I'm very sure—if I should ever meet Reverend Swan, I will take enormous pleasure in draining every drop of blood from his hypocritical body.

My hand shakes in anger.

Isabella looks up at me and lays her hand atop mine, unknowingly calming my rage.

"Have I made you uncomfortable?" she asks.

"Uncomfortable?" I reply. Twisting my hand around, I take hers and squeeze gently. "You've just recounted a horrific upbringing and you're inquiring about my feelings? Isabella, you are too good for me."

She smiles and with her free hand, reaches up to my face, gently resting her hand on my cheek.

"And you, dear Edward, are too sweet."

Her touch, her words are overwhelming. I close my eyes in response, allowing myself a few brief seconds of bliss before she withdraws her hand and continues her story.

"So that's how I ended up with Jacob. Our neighbor, William Black, owned the town haberdashery; Jacob was his son. He was a few years older than me, but we'd attended school together and had become close friends. He knew how my father treated me—the bruises on my face and arms were evidence enough. He kept trying to convince me to run away with him. He told me he loved me and wanted to give me a better life. But I couldn't leave my mother. He understood and said he would wait for me. As soon as I found out my mother had died, I came to him and told him I was ready."

Tears well up in her eyes. "I had my mother's bit of money and I don't know how he managed to secure what he did, but it was plenty for our immediate needs. We took off and never looked back."

"I was very fond of him—and even loved him—but not in the way I should have, not the way he loved me. Still, it was a much better life than the one I'd left behind. I was...content, happy almost. Until he died, too."

A momentary look of sadness crosses her face before she turns to me and smiles.

"So that's how I ended up here," she says.

I slide closer to her, grasping her hands.

"Isabella, I'm so very sorry. No person deserves to endure what you did. Unless you send me away, I vow I will never leave you."

"Oh Edward," she says, her voice cracking with emotion. "You can't make promises like that. Nobody can."

Oh but I can, my sweet girl. Open your arms, tilt back your head and I will show you how sincere I can be.

"I will do my best," I say, telling her what she needs to hear.

If we weren't in such a public place, I would ask her if I could kiss her. Show her how much I want her. How much I need her. But if I lost control…

I convince myself I will be able to keep her alive, warm and fragrant for a long time.

* * *

Over the next weeks, Isabella and I spend as much time together as possible. Occasionally we meet in the library and read silently. When the weather permits, we convene in the park, where Isabella tries her hand at painting. Sometimes we sit on our bench and recite poetry or read passages from our favorite books to each other. We don't keep company after dark, but I'm never far.

Even though the town is large, I'm sure our presence together has not gone unnoticed. I wonder if this news will reach the Copes. If it does, Mrs. Cope could make things difficult for Isabella. I should be concerned, but I don't want to spoil the time Isabella and I have left.

I'll deal with Mrs. Cope later. Mr. Cope, too, if necessary.

This afternoon, I've brought Isabella to a field on the edge of town, near the woods. I'm tired of prying eyes; I want to be alone with her, truly alone.

Isabella wants to paint, so I bring along the French easel and set it up in a suitable location. When she begins, I retreat a short distance into the woods to collect some water. As I step back into the clearing, I'm stunned by the sight in front of me.

She's facing the sun and I'm just able to distinguish the shape of her legs through her pale blue skirt. I feel like a naughty little boy, peeking at something I know I shouldn't be, yet fascinated enough not to stop.

I approach her quietly, but judging from her slight change of posture, she's heard me. I don't care—I want her to know.

Standing directly behind her, I feel her pulse quicken, hear her breathing pick up ever so slightly.

She's painting the view in front of us: a wildflower meadow.

The same meadow in the painting I'd given her the first day we met.

It's raw and unstructured, but filled with color.

She's working on a tree in the background, but the shape isn't quite right. Her hand pauses in mid-air; a silent request, asking.

Waiting.

Reaching out, I cover her hand with mine, gently forming our fingers around the brush. Her warmth spreads up my arm and throughout my body.

She doesn't recoil from my cool touch, so I continue.

I move our hands to the canvas and with a few strokes show her how to first shape the trunk, then the branches. Bringing her hand back to the palette, I collect some more paint and repeat the process.

With regret, I release her hand and let her try herself. She manages to shape out the trunk, then one branch, and another and another, continuing until she's completed one leafless tree.

"Very good," I say. "Try another."

Our bodies are so close. I feel as if I'm on fire.

She smells so good.

"Okay," she says softly. Raising her brush to meet the canvas, she executes branch after branch, and another bare tree springs to life in front of us.

"Again," I command. She obeys.

"You see?" I whisper. "Not so hard, is it?"

Shaking her head, she rests her brush on the easel before gripping the sides of the paintbox.

I'm ready to burst. The tension between us is thick, like the humid summer air surrounding us. My mind is hazy with lust; I want to reach out and cleave my body to hers.

My nose brushes her hair and I inhale deeply, breathing her scent into my lungs, unable to suppress the low groan that escapes from my throat.

_So close._

She's standing still, but her body is trembling.

"Isabella." My mouth brushes her ear, my hands settle on her hips.

"I can't hide it any longer. Surely you must know how I feel about you," I say, my lips speaking the words against her neck.

She nods.

"May I kiss you?" I ask. "Please, Isabella, may I kiss you?"

"Yes," she whispers.

My body throbbing with excitement, I turn her around and tilt her chin up with my finger. Her eyes flutter shut as I lean in and brush my lips against hers. Every nerve comes alive.

I feel—I _hear—_her blood singing underneath her skin.

One kiss and I'm practically undone. I pull back slightly, needing a moment to collect myself.

"Oh, Edward," she says, resting her forehead against mine. "I know I shouldn't be so forward, but I'm tired of holding back as well. Please…kiss me again?"

I take my hands and place them on either side of her face. Isabella closes her eyes and the second time our lips touch, she presses back. Our mouths move against each other slowly, carefully. This simple action is more pleasurable than any sexual encounter I've ever had.

When we break apart, she says, "And now you know how I feel about you."

* * *

For the rest of the afternoon, I have trouble keeping my hands off her. When I'm standing behind her at the easel, I touch her hair, stroke her arm. She laughs and scolds me for distracting her, but she doesn't stop me.

Every now and then, I lean in and sneak a quick kiss. I am a schoolboy touching his sweetheart for the first time, marveling that she is allowing me.

We walk home, holding hands until we reach the outskirts of town. Not knowing when I might be able to kiss her again, I pull her into an alley, wrap my arms around her and find her lips. She picks up on my urgency and for the first time, opens her mouth fully for me.

Our kiss is passionate, tortuous. I struggle to rein in my instincts.

Horrified, I pull away.

"Isabella, I'm—"

She shushes my stammered apology.

"Edward, don't," she says, shaking her head. "I'm guilty, too. I suppose we both need to work on our self-control."

"I don't ever want to hurt you," I say.

"I know." She touches her lips and smiles before we walk back to the street and the reality which it holds.

* * *

I don't see Isabella for a few days. The Copes will be returning home next week, so she needs to prepare the house for their arrival. The separation is hell, but it gives me time to reflect on my conflicting desires.

Now that I've kissed her, I can't go back. I want more.

But if she gives me more, will I surrender to my dark cravings?

So help me God, I'm trying hard to be good, but this evil part of me, the part that was thrust upon me against my will, has an iron-clad hold on me.

I need to break the shackles and free the man I once was.

I hold out hope he is still in me.

* * *

I've planned a special evening for our last free night together. I know how much she enjoys the arts, so I'm taking her to a local theater group's performance of _The Geisha._

When she opens her door, I'm greeted by her simple, yet elegant beauty.

"Isabella," I say, taking her hand and pressing it to my lips in an ardent kiss. "You look so beautiful."

She smiles timidly. "Is this dress suitable? I don't have too many fine clothes, so—"

"You're perfect," I say.

Because to me, she is.

"Thank you, Edward. You always know how to make me feel special. Now, let me just fetch my fan and I'll be ready."

Isabella turns and walks back into the house, stopping at a hallway table to retrieve her fan. She looks into the mirror hanging above the table, checking her attire one last time.

I come up behind her, placing my hands on her shoulders.

"Isabella, I have something for you. Something I'd like you to wear. Would you do me the honor?"

"Edward, whatever are you up to?" she asks curiously.

She doesn't refuse my question, so I slip my hand into my pocket and pull out the amethyst necklace. Reaching around her neck, I lay the necklace against her chest and fasten the clasp. Isabella's eyes widen when she looks in the mirror.

"Oh," she says, her fingers reaching up to touch the sparkling pendant. "Oh…this is absolutely the most exquisite piece of jewelry I've ever seen." Her mouth drops open as she caresses the gem over and over.

"It was my mother's favorite necklace," I say. "I was going through some of her jewelry a few weeks ago and when I saw this, I thought of you. Of how lovely it would look against your skin. And it does."

"I can't possibly accept something of such sentimental value! And it must be very expensive, what if I should damage it? Or lose it?"

"Nonsense. Nothing is going to happen to it. As for the sentimental value, it is dear to my heart. That is exactly why I want you to wear it."

Her eyes lock onto mine in the mirror, full of passion and intensity. She nods her agreement.

Watching each other's reflections like this feels extremely intimate. It leads my mind to wicked places, so before I take us there, I break the spell.

"Excellent. Shall we go? The show will be starting shortly and we don't want to be late."

"Ready when you are," she says as I take her arm and whisk her out the door.

* * *

Isabella and I enjoy a leisurely stroll home. The theater performance was enjoyable, but not nearly as pleasurable as sitting close to her in the dark for several hours, feeling her warmth, hearing her laughter.

As we climb the steps to her front door, I know I'm not ready to say goodnight.

Before I can find my voice, Isabella speaks out.

"Would you like to come inside for a few minutes before you have to go?" she asks, seemingly flustered over her forwardness.

"Yes, very much so," I say.

Isabella smiles and once we're inside, she ushers me to a large sitting room.

"Can I offer you a drink? Coffee? Something stronger?"

"Coffee would be fine," I answer, knowing I won't drink it.

Isabella walks into the kitchen and while she's away, I glance around at my surroundings. It's a cozy room—pity the same can't be said about the owners.

I spy a handsome Edison phonograph atop a table in one corner. A collection of recordings sit beside it in a chest on the floor and a grin spreads across my face.

A few minutes later, I hear footsteps and the second Isabella returns with our drinks, I crank the handle. As soon as the sounds of "Maple Leaf Rag" fill the room, I take the tray from her, place it on a serving table and grab her by the waist.

"Edward, what—?"

"Dance with me," I interrupt, and without waiting for her answer, start to sweep her across the floor.

We're spinning around the room at a lively clip, dodging tables and chairs and anything else that gets in our way. Isabella is squealing with delight and I laugh along with her.

I've never felt so carefree.

The song ends and we come to a stop. Our laughter subsides as Isabella catches her breath. We're still holding each other and when I look down at her flushed face and bright eyes, the merriment I was just feeling is suddenly morphing into something much more intense.

She is looking up at me expectantly. I pause for a moment, willing myself to stay in control. Leaning in slowly, I press my lips against hers; Isabella responds with unexpected vigor.

I'm caught off-guard. The thought that she might want me as much as I want her arouses me.

Floods me with the need to subdue her.

Spurred on by her enthusiasm and driven by my predatory nature, I back her up against the wall, our mouths hot and greedy.

I want to claim her, right here, right now. It would be so easy, so quick, so goddamned pleasurable…

My remaining humanity bursts forth and I squelch those gruesome thoughts. A rush of guilt overcomes me. Hard, urgent kisses become soft, tender pecks.

I pull away and study her lovely face.

"Your lips are the softest things I've ever touched," I marvel, running my thumb lightly across her bottom lip, still slightly damp from our kiss.

"And your skin," I say, moving my fingers to her forehead and trailing them down her cheek before pausing at her chin, "is like silk. Feel how my fingers glide across your face?"

Isabella closes her eyes and leans her head back against the wall, exposing her throat, as if in offering.

I'm drunk with desire.

My fingers slide down her neck, resting in the hollow of her throat. Her pulse is hammering a furious rhythm against my fingertips, an invitation to come closer.

I do.

"But this part of you? Your neck?" I say, dusting my fingers along her collarbone, "Is especially intoxicating. You smell so good, Isabella."

She lets out a heavy sigh. Before I can stop myself, I lean down, my mouth seeking her throat. Unable to resist temptation, my tongue sneaks out; the taste of her wet skin is exquisite.

I feel the vibration of her moan against my tongue and match it with one of my own.

In a bold move, Isabella drops her head, her lips finding mine. She kisses me with a passion that threatens to undo years of carefully crafted self-control. I push my whole body against her, pinning her to the wall, letting her feel all of me. She rises on her toes and pushes back. I groan in frustration, realizing I need to stop, but reeling in the bliss of her hips pressed against mine.

I could damage her. I need more practice being intimate with her, more control over my volatile nature. I break our kiss and instead, whisper my desire into her ear.

"I want you so much, Isabella. The beast in me wants to take you right here, against this wall. But the gentleman in me would never allow that to happen."

She is shaking and her grip on me loosens.

"Edward, I'm so sorry. I got carried away; I don't know what came over me, I just—"

"Shh, my sweet," I say, stroking her hair. "It's my fault. I allowed physical desires to overtake reason."

"You must think I'm no better than a common whore."

"No! Don't ever think that about yourself," I say, wrapping my arms around her in a forceful hug. Isabella gasps and I immediately soften my hold to a gentle embrace, her head cradled in my chest. We stay in this position, rocking gently back and forth, for a few moments until it hits me.

Her head. Against my chest.

Where my heart lays motionless inside.

Swallowing my panic, I pull away and look into her eyes, searching for any sign of confusion.

Her eyes look soft and dreamy. Filled with emotion.

The eyes of a woman in love.

It nearly shatters my stone heart.

I've been a fool to think I can be with her.

I have to tell her. To lead her to believe I'm something I'm not, to allow her to hope for something that can never come true is morally reprehensible. I should be ashamed.

I should walk away now, disappear into the night and never return. Just as my parents did many years prior, she will wonder what happened to me and why I deserted her. But in time, her memory of me will fade. After a while, she'll meet another man, fall in love and live her life as she is supposed to.

But I don't do those things. Instead, I kiss her as softly as I can manage and bid her goodnight. Run back to my home, disgusted at my cowardice.

My selfishness.

I'm not ready to give her up yet.

I've only just begun to live again.

* * *

**Thank you so much for reading!**


	9. August

**_Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer.**

**As always, love and thanks to arfalcon, she's always there for me.**

* * *

**~August~ **

Pink.

Lips, pressing against my own.

Soft and delicate, like a rose petal. Warm breath washes over my face and I pull her into my arms, days of tension melting away at her touch.

I lead her to our secret spot and we sit on the bench.

"I missed you."

"I missed you too, Isabella. So much."

I tangle my hands in her hair and bury my nose in her neck. Inhale her potent mix of blood and skin.

Lowering my head to her chest, I listen to the rush of blood in her heart as it passes from chamber to chamber.

Holding still, I familiarize myself with every murmur, every gurgle.

I'm proud of my increasing self-control, but I also know my limits.

Lifting my head, I kiss her before lying down and resting my head in her lap. She weaves her fingers in and out of my hair; it both calms and thrills me.

"Tell me what you've been doing since I saw you last. Did Mrs. Cope's holiday temper her disposition? Or is she just as crotchety as ever?"

Isabella laughs and rolls her eyes. "No amount of leisure time could improve her personality. Fortunately, she's pre-occupied with organizing her women's club charity ball, so she hasn't been paying me too much attention. I'm spending most of my time with the children. They'll be going back to school shortly, so I need to start preparing them for their lessons."

"Mmm… lucky children. I envy them."

"Somehow I imagine you'd be bored with doing sums and memorizing names of ancient explorers."

"Perhaps you'd be willing to make amends for such an advanced pupil as myself?"

"Why, Mr. Cullen, whatever do you mean?"

"Private lessons," I say, turning my face to her body and kissing her through layers of fabric. I wonder if her bare stomach is as soft as her lips…

"And just who would be the tutor and who would be the pupil?" she asks, breathless as I continue to kiss up her torso.

"It would be a mutual learning experience. You'll find me a most eager pupil." I reach her mouth and speak against those petal-pink lips. "And a very passionate teacher."

I should be ashamed of the liberties I'm taking, but judging from the look on her face, she doesn't mind.

"Edward…some of the things you say…you make me feel—"

In one swift move, I sit up and pull her so she's perched on my lap.

"How? How do I make you feel?" I drag my hands up her sides.

She angles her body toward mine. We're nose-to-nose.

"Alive."

I kiss her.

"Free."

I brush my fingers across her breasts and she draws in a breath.

"Wanted."

"I do want you, Isabella. In more ways than you can imagine."

"You see? When you say things like that," she says, her fingers trailing down my arms, grasping my hands and pressing them against her chest. Encouraging me to touch. "When you look at me the way you are right now, how can I deny you?"

My little lamb, you know not what you ask.

Isabella winds her arms around my neck and leans in to kiss me. It's slow and ripe with promises and drives me mad. My hand strays to the edge of her dress. I fondle the hem for a few moments before slipping my fingers under the fabric to stroke her ankle. She doesn't stop me, so I slide my hand up her calf. Isabella hums in response and I think I might explode.

I lay her down on the seat, my hand pushing away fabric, creeping higher until I reach her knee. I ache to rip away her stockings and touch her unclothed skin.

"You have me bewitched, Isabella Black. You consume my every thought. I would give everything I own just to be with you."

"Oh, Edward. I feel the same. I thought I knew loneliness, but what I felt before was nothing compared to how empty I feel when I'm not with you."

I think she would allow me to take her here, on our bench, outside in the hot summer sun. Wild and unrestrained.

And I almost do, but the prickling sensation on the back of my neck stops me.

I jerk my head around to the entrance of our sanctuary. Caught up in my desire, I unwittingly let my guard down; the distant snapping of a twig is the last sound I hear from our apparent intruder. I briefly consider giving chase and silencing whoever saw us, but quickly dismiss the idea when Isabella speaks.

"Edward, what is it?"

"Nothing. I thought I heard something. Animal, most likely," I say, not wanting to alarm her.

"An animal? Are you sure?" Her voice holds a hint of concern.

"Yes, I'm certain. Still, I think it best we leave soon. Once again, I've behaved badly. I'm so sorry." She opens her mouth to protest, but I draw her into my arms.

If I was an honorable man, I would get down on my knee and ask her to marry me. Does she expect it? God knows I want to, but I can't. Not yet. Not until she knows.

So I just hold her tighter and we sit quietly until duty calls and Isabella has to leave.

I return home and plot how I'm going to tell her.

I've never been so indecisive—or afraid.

* * *

It's a brilliant, sunny day and I'm feeling uncharacteristically lazy. Settling down on a patch of grass in the back garden, I lie back, clasping my hands behind my head and stare up at the cloudless sky. As always, my mind wanders to Isabella and when I will see her again. I think back to the day of our first kiss, when I saw the outline of her legs through her dress. I think of how she let me touch her the other day on our bench. My thoughts turn carnal.

I've forgotten what it's like to have intercourse with a woman face-to-face. Since my change, I've only taken women from behind—and fully clothed. I preferred it that way. I didn't want to see their faces, I only wanted to feel their heat.

I think about how it would be to make love to Isabella. To have her underneath me, naked and inviting. I can't imagine a more beautiful sight than looking into her eyes as I push into her for the first time. Listening to the sounds she makes while I'm moving inside her. Reveling in the smell of our coupling. The taste of salt thick on my tongue as I lick the sweat from the valley between her breasts. Feeling her climax pulse around my own...

Groaning in frustration, I slide my hand down my body, reaching to unfasten my trousers. Before I manage to undo the first button, I hear movement coming from the forest path.

Jumping up, I listen carefully. It sounds like an animal, but the pace of its steps tells me it's not a wild beast.

Horse—and judging from the slight heaviness of its tread, bearing a burden.

Flaring my nostrils, I inhale and my eyes widen with surprise.

Isabella.

Here, at my home, unannounced, unexpected.

How did she find me? I never told her where I lived…

Mr. Elkins.

Cursing his helpfulness, I smooth out my attire and head out front to greet her.

The horse and trap carrying Isabella comes into sight around a bend in the path and I immediately see something is amiss.

Isabella looks distraught and I run to stop the horse.

"Isabella, what's wrong?"

"She's kicked me out, sacked me," she says, tossing the reins aside. I reach up and grab her waist, pulling her down into my arms, but she doesn't want to be held.

She's furious.

"That nasty woman! In front of the household staff, she accused me of whoring it up with 'that eccentric Cullen gentleman.' Said she had it on good authority I was allowing you to take liberties with me in the park. She told me she was very disappointed in me and she couldn't allow a woman with such a reputation to reside in her home. What would the guests think? What about the children?" She spits the last two sentences out in a dead-on impersonation of Mrs. Cope; if she weren't so upset, I would be inclined to laugh and praise her mimicry skills.

Truthfully, I'm thrilled she'll no longer be living there.

Now she can stay with me. Away from prying eyes and lecherous husbands.

"What am I going to do? Where am I going to stay? I don't have a lot of money and—"

I take her into my arms. "You'll stay with me, of course."

"But I can't pay you!"

"I don't want your money." I cup her chin and tilt her face up. "I only want you."

"Edward," she says, stroking my cheek, "I can't impose."

"It will only be temporary," I say, hoping to placate her independent streak. "Just until we—until you—figure out what you want to do."

She eyes me suspiciously before agreeing.

"As long as you put me to work while I'm here. Do you need a housekeeper?" She looks around the front garden. "And it looks as if you've neglected your garden. I can help fix it up."

"As fate would have it, the woman who helped take care of my house recently left my employ."

Fifty years ago…

"So I am in the market for someone." I flash a sly smile. "Do you come with references?"

She doesn't miss a beat. "Unfortunately there was a personality clash with my former employer. But I assure you, I am very qualified."

"Hmm, well I shall have to take your word." I step closer. "Are you thorough?"

Isabella closes the distance between us, our bodies close enough that I feel her warmth.

"Very."

I'm not sure which I find more arousing, how close she is to me or the sauciness of our words.

"I'm also in need of a model. Someone who will sit for my paintings, pose for me. Inspire me."

"Are you asking me to be your muse?"

"What if you already are?"

We've yet to touch each other. The restraint is adding to the delicious anticipation.

"I see. Aren't artists and their muses often lovers?"

"Sometimes."

"Are you in need of one of those as well?"

"Am I in need of what? A lover?" I finally touch her, snaking my hand around her waist and pulling her flush to me.

"Yes," she whispers.

"I am in need. Desperate need. And if you come closer, I'll tell you a secret."

She tilts her head to the side and I lean in to her ear.

"I think she knows."

She pushes her hips into mine and now it's her turn to whisper into my ear.

"I think she does, too."

Never in my life have I been so aroused. I wonder how I will ever stay in control when we finally consummate our relationship.

"Isabella," I groan, turning my head and capturing her mouth with mine. I kiss her deeply.

She claws at my arms, my waist, pushing, pulling.

My hands roam down her back, squeezing her backside.

We're quickly reaching the point of no return and as much as I want to fall with her to the ground and sink into her, we have other matters to attend to.

With strength I didn't know I possessed, I slowly pull away, panting and frustrated and hold her tightly until her racing heart evens out.

"We have to go into town. I'm not prepared for company, so I need to pick up a few items from the market before they close. Were you able to pack your things?"

"Yes, they're in the trap. But in my haste to leave, I forgot a few important items. I don't think Mrs. Cope will mind if I stop and retrieve them."

"I'll come with you and make sure she doesn't."

The full magnitude of her ordeal seems to catch up with her and her face looks forlorn.

"It will be alright, Isabella, I promise."

"I know. It's been a long day, that's all. Shall we go? If we hurry, Mrs. Cope might not be home yet and I'd like to get this over with."

I lift her back onto the seat of the trap before climbing up myself. She slides close to me and I tuck her under my arm. With a command to the horse, I turn the trap around and head back to town.

* * *

Isabella and I stop at the market and purchase a few groceries. On our way to the boarding house, I remember I need to stop by Mr. Elkins' shop to order art supplies. Isabella suggests going alone to the boarding house, assuring me the Copes won't be home at this time of day. I don't like the idea, but she insists it will save time.

I think she wants to avoid any possibility of more gossip, so I reluctantly give in and agree to meet her at the boarding house within the hour.

I quickly conclude my business with Mr. Elkins and hurry down the street.

The closer I get to the boarding house, the more anxious I become. My skin is prickly with anticipation, much like it is while I'm hunting.

I don't even bother to knock on the front door, grabbing the handle, alarmed to find it locked. Isabella told me she would leave it open for me, despite my protestations otherwise.

A quick twist of my wrist splinters the handle and I step into the hallway.

I hear a small cry and when I enter the parlor, I see Mr. Cope pressing Isabella against the wall, his filthy hands all over her, his mouth on her neck.

I want nothing more than to rush over and tear his throat open, but I think of Isabella and how it would affect her. Instead, I find my civilized voice.

"Take your hands off her!"

Mr. Cope jumps back, his face red and sweaty. I sense he is about to run, so I cross the room and prevent him from doing so.

Isabella runs to my arms and I hug her tightly for a few moments. There will be time for comfort later; right now I need to deal with the animal in front of me.

"Isabella, get your things. Meet me outside. I won't be long."

She doesn't move and when I glance over at her, she looks pale and frightened.

"It's alright, Isabella. Mr. Cope and I are just going to have a little chat." I smile at her, hoping to reassure her. She nods and hurries upstairs.

My attention turns to the man cowering before me. I grab his wrist and twist him around, pinning him to the wall, his arm bent awkwardly behind him. He winces in discomfort.

"What kind of man—a married man, no less—corners a defenseless young woman and tries to force himself on her against her will?"

"I didn't mean to…I was only having a bit of fun—" he stammers.

"Fun? I don't think I care for your idea of fun, Mr. Cope. And I daresay Mrs. Cope would agree."

I lean in to his neck. Adrenaline is causing his heart to pump faster, the blood in his arteries pushing hard against their walls, beating at the inside of his skin. My rage, coupled with the scent of his fear, is a dangerous combination. I feel the red haze creeping into my vision.

I want to rip him apart limb by limb. Slowly. Make him suffer.

Tell him what I am and what I'd do to him.

If Isabella wasn't upstairs, I would do just that.

He doesn't know how lucky he is. When I speak, my voice is low and menacing.

"If you so much as look at Isabella again, I will make things very unpleasant for you. Do you understand, Mr. Cope?"

"Yes." His breathing is labored. "I understand. Just please… please let me go."

"I want you to swear to God you will not breathe a word of this to anyone. Not a soul. I will find out if you do, and I will come back for you." I apply a little more pressure to his arm and he cries out in pain.

"Yes…yes, I swear!"

I release him and he stumbles down the hallway and into another room, slamming the door and locking it behind him.

I need to get Isabella out of here. Just as I turn to climb the stairs, she descends, carrying a few objects. Her color has returned but her hands are shaking. I take the items from her, one of which is a small framed photograph of a woman.

"My mother," she says, answering my unspoken question.

Nodding, I wrap my arm around her. "Are you sure you have everything? We won't be returning."

"I do. And I've never been more ready to move on."

She squeezes my arm and the way she smiles at me fills me with so much hope.

Hope that she can love me for who—and what—I am.

* * *

We arrive home at twilight. I show Isabella to her room and pace around my library while she settles in.

It's been a long day and I'm sure she's tired. I, of course, am not.

What I am is thirsty.

Parched.

I need to hunt. Soon.

Before I succumb to the most delectable nectar on earth.

I haven't heard a sound from her in twenty minutes, so I walk down the hall and stop outside her room.

Deep, even breaths.

Quietly opening the door, I peek in and find Isabella sprawled on the bed, still in her clothes, fast asleep.

Creeping in, I stand over her, listening to her heart, smelling her blood, admiring her beauty.

Wishing I could rouse her, help her undress and take her to bed.

She's finally here with me and I still can't be with her the way I want.

Not yet.

Temptation overwhelms me, so I back out, close the door and run.

Run into the hot night air, picking up a scent immediately.

Chase the deer, take it down, drink my fill.

Minutes later, lying on the forest floor, it comes to me.

One month…I'll tell her in one month's time.

On the autumnal equinox.

It's the beginning of Mehregan, the Persian Festival of Autumn. An ancient festival of sharing and love.

The day the ancient Persians believed God gave light to the world.

I can think of no better time to share my secrets and profess my love to the woman who gave me light.

Decision made, I make my way back home.

Back to Isabella.

* * *

**The information on Mehregan was obtained through the internet, so I'm hoping it's accurate. **

**Thanks to everyone for reading, recc'ing, reviewing. It really does mean a lot to me! :-)**


	10. September

**_Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. "She Walks in Beauty" written by Lord Byron.**

**So much love and thanks to arfalcon. She pushes me and makes everything better. **

* * *

**~September~**

Orange.

Sky, set ablaze by the sun's setting rays.

Daylight puts up her last fight in the face of night's advance.

Isabella and I watch daylight's defeat from the top of an elevated clearing in the woods. I've watched the sunset from this spot hundreds of times before, but never has it seemed more beautiful than on this late summer evening with Isabella by my side.

I turn to look at her; her expression is contemplative.

"What are you thinking about?" I ask.

"How much my life has changed this past year. For the better." She smiles. "Because of you."

_Because of you._

Because of me, her whole world will soon be turned upside down.

I can't wait any longer to tell her. Summoning the courage, I take a deep breath and speak.

"Isabella, I'm not who you think I am. Not _what_ you think I am."

She gives me a curious look and crawls in front of me, placing her hands on my cheeks.

"I know you're a kind and generous man. An artist with a passionate soul."

Soul?

I spit out a harsh laugh. She ignores my outburst and wraps her arms around my neck.

"Intelligent."

She leans in and with every word, places a kiss on my face; each one stamps a mark on my silent heart.

"Witty. Patient. Romantic."

Isabella's lips reach my ear.

"And the man who has stolen my heart," she whispers.

You have stolen my heart too, Isabella.

Awakened it…

I'm only prolonging the inevitable. But how can I tell her after such a heartfelt admission?

I convince myself to wait until the equinox after all.

I pull her tight to me, savoring every moment I might have left with her.

A few months ago, I told her that unless she sent me away, I would never leave her. I'm afraid that promise will soon come true.

* * *

Isabella has settled in comfortably. The room I had prepared for her some weeks ago—in the hope she would one day accept my invitation—seems perfect for her needs. The weather has been pleasant, so we spend a good deal of time outdoors, reading, painting and exploring. We ventured into town once, for art supplies and a stop at the market, but she doesn't seem bothered by our isolation. It's only been a few weeks since she left town, but I hope she is as content in our solitude as I am.

She is a great temptation, but I have been good.

A gentleman on the outside, chastely holding her hand. Occasionally stealing a kiss or lingering in an embrace.

Night time is difficult, when I know she's sleeping so close to where I sit. I'm desperate to be with her, to lie beside her, to feel her warm body next to mine. To touch her and watch her awaken from slumber, ready and eager to welcome me.

To love her in the dark. In the daylight.

Everywhere and all the time.

Forever.

* * *

Today is September 22nd, the autumnal equinox, the first day of Mehregan and the rising of a harvest moon.

The day I've chosen to reveal all to Isabella.

I'm nervous and anxious. Full of hope, but filled with fear. Tired of pretending to be human, but afraid to let go of its familiarity.

The hardest decision I will ever make.

Because the heavens will be so bright tonight, I decide to take Isabella stargazing. The hill outside my house offers the perfect vantage point. Telescope in hand, we make our way up to the summit. She's excited about our plans and her enthusiasm is infectious, quelling my increasing unease.

The moon is still rising over the distant tree tops, so I focus on other heavenly bodies, pointing out different planets and constellations.

Isabella is a rapt student.

"Look up there," I say, pointing to a cluster of stars in the western sky. "Do you see that group of stars?"

She pulls back from the telescope to follow my finger. Once she finds what I'm pointing to, she takes a few moments to study the formation. "It seems to resemble a cross?"

"Yes, exactly. That's the Northern Cross. But those stars are also part of the constellation, Cygnus."

"The swan," she breathes.

"Yes." My fingers move from star to star as I trace out the shape. "Her head is pointed down toward the horizon and her wings spread out to the side as she flies along the Milky Way."

"I see it!"

I pull her back against me and my arms encircle her waist. Resting my chin on her shoulder, I nuzzle her neck.

"Would you like to hear one of the legends behind Cygnus?"

She nods, so I continue.

"In Greek mythology, there was a beautiful woman named Leda. She was the wife of King Tyndareus of Sparta. Zeus became enamored with her and decided he had to have her. He disguised himself as a swan and fell into her arms for protection from a pursuing eagle."

I pause to kiss along the column of her neck and feel her skin heat up. I think about laying her down in the soft grass and taking her here, under the stars.

"He seduced her. Their consummation, on the same night Leda lay with her husband, resulted in the birth of several children, one of whom was Helen of Troy. Legends differ as to who Helen's father was, but regardless, she was a great beauty. As are you."

I wrap my arms around her even tighter and speak low into her ear.

_"She walks in beauty, like the night_

_Of cloudless climes and starry skies;_

_And all that's best of dark and bright_

_Meet in her aspect and her eyes:_

_Thus mellow'd to that tender light_

_Which heaven to gaudy day denies."_

Isabella shivers. "I like when you tell me stories. When you quote poetry."

I need to have her, so like Zeus, I continue my seduction.

"What else do you like? Tell me," I whisper, my lips brushing the shell of her ear, my hands moving to rest on her hips. She leans back into me further and I can't help but notice how fragile she is...

"I like when you touch me," she says, her voice soft and breathy.

Her words send a rush of heat to my groin. She shifts back slightly, so I know she can feel what she does to me. Her pulse hammers in her neck, tantalizingly close to my mouth. I press my lips on top of her carotid artery and the vibrations echo through me, setting every nerve on fire. Venom drips down my parched throat. My god, she would taste divine...

With great effort, I choke down my blood lust and focus on my carnal appetite. Trailing my hands up her torso, I brush my thumbs over her breasts, gently caressing. She suddenly grasps my hand and drags it down to the top of her legs, encouraging me to touch elsewhere.

When I press my fingers into the soft fabric of her dress, Isabella lets out a sensual moan. My lips pull back and I drag my teeth down her neck, sinking them softly into her shoulder, testing the give of her flesh. I don't break skin, but I do suck hard enough to draw blood up to just beneath the surface.

Isabella stiffens and I'm afraid I've gone too far, but then she lets out the most erotic cry. Like tinder to a flame, I ignite.

"Do you like that?" I ask, my voice muffled against her shoulder, my tongue laving at the blemish I've made.

"God...yes," she replies, clasping my fingers and pushing them deeper into her dress.

I suck again at her neck and her shoulder and every time I draw her flesh into my mouth, she cries out.

Turning around, she takes my hand and pulls us to the ground. She lies back, her arms outstretched and I descend on her, kissing her lips, her face, her throat.

"Edward," she whispers, her arms entwining around my neck, her hips lifting into mine. "I don't understand why... I just... want you so much. All the time."

My eyes clench shut as I summon the strength not to ravage her. But then she reaches down and touches me over my trousers and I'm lost.

With a growl, I press my erection against her and she cries out in pleasure. Even through layers of clothing, I can feel her heat and it's the most exquisite form of torture.

The sounds she makes, the way she holds me, spur me on. I'm rutting into her like the true animal I am, bound by instinct, led by desire.

My eyes are still closed, but I don't need sight to lead me to the beautiful blue vein in her neck.

I'm so thirsty. I want to bite her. Hard.

I want to fuck her even more.

I lick her neck, all sense of right and wrong jumbled into an insatiable need for her blood and her body.

My hands slip under the bottom of her dress, seeking bare flesh.

"Isabella." I whisper into her mouth, stroking her naked thigh.

"Please," she begs.

I know what she wants. I want it, too.

Only I want more.

And if I don't stop now, I will be taking her under false pretenses and I don't want that at all.

"I can't" I say, extricating myself from our embrace and jumping up, "Not this way."

"Edward, what's wrong? I don't understand—"

"I have to go. There's something I need to do and it can't wait. I'll see you back at the house." I turn and walk quickly down the hill, Isabella's protestations fading with each step I take.

When I reach the bottom, I run, because if I don't, I will go back and take.

Once I'm deep in the woods, I take down a stag. He fights me heartily and I welcome his struggle. Sinking my teeth into his neck, I drink until I'm sated, but it doesn't satisfy me.

Rising to my feet, I scream at the top of my lungs. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf answers my call with a plaintive howl.

A chill washes over me as the wolf cries again.

I left Isabella alone. Outside, at night.

Sick with dread, I run back to the house. If anything happens to her...

I run faster. Faster than I ever have before.

Bursting into the house, I call her name, but she doesn't answer. I dash from room to room, but she isn't here.

The hill.

Sprinting out the door, I run up the hill. My heart leaps when I see her silhouette peering into the telescope.

When she hears me approach, she turns, scowling, with her hands on her hips.

"Where did you go? Why are you always running from me?" she shouts.

Then she sees me. Really sees me.

Blood. Staining my shirt, my hands.

My mouth.

"Edward? My god, what happened?" she asks, her voice laced with concern. She starts toward me, but I put my hands up, stopping her.

"I need to tell you something. I should have told you months ago, but I've been such a coward."

The tone of my voice alters her demeanor. Her arms wrap around her body and when she speaks, it's without emotion.

"What is it?"

"I told you a few weeks ago I'm not who you think I am. I'm different from other people, different from you."

I fall to my knees in front of her, my arms outstretched, imploring her forgiveness.

Her understanding.

"This is who I am, Isabella. Neither man nor beast, but an unnatural combination of the two."

Her eyes are wide and her skin looks pale; I can't tell if it's from the shock of my revelation or from the reflection of the moon.

I reach for her. She backs away and it shatters me.

"I would never harm you, you must believe me! I do not practice the traditional ways, I only take—"

I stop, realizing I have yet to tell her what I am, yet to utter the foul word that is my existence.

She says if for me, her voice hushed and eerily calm.

"Vampire."

I loathe the word. I didn't think it possible, but hearing Isabella say it makes me feel even more disgusted by what I am.

I nod and wait for the realization to take hold of her.

Wait for her to run screaming down the hill, into the woods and out of my world.

Her fingers come up to her lips and her eyes narrow as she works it out in her head.

I finally speak the words I should have spoken long ago.

"I'm still a man, Isabella. And I love you."

She looks at me and her eyes fill with tears. Slowly, she walks back toward me.

"Edward," she whispers and now she's the one falling to her knees. She's the one reaching for me.

My brows knit in confusion. Dare I hope?

Isabella brings her hand up to my face and smoothes my forehead with her thumb.

When I find my voice, it comes out rough and broken.

"You still… want me?"

Isabella drops her hands to mine, grasping them tightly, undaunted by the blood that covers them.

"Oh Edward," she says, gazing deep into my eyes. "I'll never stop wanting you."

With those words, my world shifts. Everything I've been feeling, all my doubts from the past eight months come rushing out. I let out a strangled cry and collapse into her lap. Her fingers thread through my hair, soothing me.

There is still so much to be said. I pull myself up and sit back.

"How long have you known?"

"I became suspicious in July, after our evening at the theater. At the boarding house, after our dance, I rested my head on your chest. Your heart should have been pounding, but I heard and felt nothing. The next day, I went to the library, seeking medical books to explain away a lack of heartbeat. When I couldn't find any, my search took me down another path—the legends and folklore from my youth. My mind tried to dismiss it, tried to reason it away, but once the seed had taken root, it grew. And I just knew."

"At first, I was in denial. Hurt, confused." She pauses briefly. "Frightened."

I think back to last month and our time apart. "Is that the real reason I didn't see you for an entire week?"

"It is. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I didn't care. I was happier than I had ever been and if you had wanted to hurt me, you would have done so by then. Maybe I was foolish, selfish even, but I turned a blind eye to the thought of how you sustained yourself. I knew you as a good and decent man and I believed with all my heart you would come forth with the truth. And _what _you were didn't hold a candle to _who _you were. Suddenly it didn't matter to me anymore."

She shifts closer to me.

"Because I love you."

I pull her into my lap and with the moon bearing witness, I tell her everything. I tell her how I was changed, how I spent my first few years indulging in human blood until desperation and guilt led me to the creatures of the woods. I tell her how I existed for decades, alone and bitter, praying for death until the fateful day I caught her scent and stumbled upon her drinking from the stream.

I tell her how much I wanted her, both blood and body. How she made me feel the first time she touched me in Mr. Elkins' shop. The desire I felt for her when I posed her on our park bench. The completeness I felt when our lips touched for the first time.

I tell her how she's the angel I've been waiting for.

My love. My life.

Confession complete, I await her reaction.

Isabella rises and holds her hand out to me.

"I want to go home."

We walk down the hill, silently, the moon and stars guiding our way. I kneel by the small brook near the house, washing away all traces of remaining blood.

Once inside, I shed my shirt and turn to face Isabella. She regards me with an inquisitive look.

Without a word, she walks over to me. She reaches up and her fingers run along my mouth. I close my eyes, relishing the velvet feel of her touch. Parting my lips, I remain still as her fingers run tentatively along my teeth.

Her exploration is slow. Erotic. Venom drips down the back of my throat. I take her wrist and pull her fingers away from my mouth, my teeth mourning the loss of the taste of her sweet flesh.

"I want to know everything about you," she says.

"I want to tell you everything." I kiss her fingers, her palm, her wrist. "But not tonight. Tonight I just want to hold you, because just an hour ago, I thought I had lost you."

I lead her to the sofa and Isabella melts into my arms. We sit, sharing soft kisses and gentle caresses until sleep claims her.

I pick her up and carry her to her bed. I place her down gently, but as soon as I turn to leave, she stirs.

"Stay with me?"

Without uttering a word, I lie down beside her and cradle her in my arms.

Listen to the rise and fall of her breathing. Feel the strong beat of her heart beneath my fingers.

Wanting to be nowhere else.

For the first time since my change, I welcome the long night ahead of me.

* * *

**Thank you so much for reading. Wishing everyone a happy and healthy 2012!**


	11. October

**_Twilight_ and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer.**

**I know I sound like a broken record, but love and thanks to arfalcon.**

* * *

**~October~**

Gold.

Leaves, floating down, abandoning branches before their vibrant colors fade.

Nature's bedding, blanketing us from above, cushioning us underneath.

Isabella and I are lying in the grass, enjoying as much of the outdoors as we can before the weather turns cold. We make a game of guessing the shape of each cloud as it sweeps above us.

We laugh over each other's imaginings until the clouds break up, leaving us with nothing but blue sky. I close my eyes and bask in the perfect simplicity of this afternoon.

The warmth of the early October sun and the caress of the breeze soon work their magic on Isabella; it's not long before she drifts into slumber.

I watch the steady rise and fall of her chest. It reminds me of the first time I saw her like this: the night I told her what I was. The night she put her trust in me and let me hold her while she slept.

That night I relished the feel of her warm body next to mine. Listened to her quiet breaths. Never before had stillness been so satisfying.

When dawn eventually broke, it was bright and hopeful. The rising sun had colored the room in a wash of gold. I'd committed the scene to memory, capturing its perfection on canvas later that very day.

_The sun's rays crept across the room and made their way up the bed to Isabella's face. The brightness caused her to stir and after a few minutes, she opened her eyes. She blinked a few times before turning to find me staring at her._

"_You stayed," she said._

_I pulled her tight against me._

"_You let me."_

A gust of wind rushes through. Maple, birch, and elm leaves scatter, along with my thoughts.

She told me she didn't care what I was, but I can't deny her behavior has changed. It's subtle, but when I touch her, when I kiss her, she seems to be holding back from her prior affections.

Is she afraid? Having second thoughts? I suspect a bit of both, but I don't question her; she is still here with me, after all. The only time she completely relaxes is at night, when she lets me hold her as she falls asleep in my arms.

I understand how she must feel. I need to give her time to come to terms with the enormity of my revelation.

Time is something I have plenty of.

Another burst of wind swirls around us, stronger this time.

Isabella awakes with a start. She sits up and rubs her eyes.

"How long was I asleep?" she asks.

"Not long," I say, reaching up and running my fingers through her hair, pulling out leaves and bits of twigs.

She twists around and flops down on my chest, her chin resting on her clasped hands, studying me.

"I had a dream," she says.

"Will you tell me about it?"

She thinks a few moments before closing her eyes. "I was walking through the woods, looking for you. I heard a sound behind a thicket of brush and when I pushed it aside, there you were, crouched on the ground. You turned around and your mouth was covered with blood. You stood up and walked toward me. I started to back away, but you grabbed me and pulled me into your arms. You kissed me. When you drew back, I reached up and ran my fingers over my mouth, smearing the blood across my lips. You asked me how I liked it." She opens her eyes and holds my gaze. "I woke up before I could answer."

I'm equally horrified and excited. Horrified that Isabella conjured up such a nightmare.

Excited at the thought of her mouth covered in blood—and enjoying it.

"What does it taste like?"

She asks with genuine curiosity. I don't want to keep any more secrets, so I tell her.

"Surely you've cut your finger before? And sucked the blood off to stop the bleeding?"

"I have, but I… didn't know if it would taste the same to…" Her voice trails off.

"To someone like me?"

She nods.

"It does—although there's much more to it. All blood has a distinctive metallic taste. But my kind can detect the subtle differences human beings cannot. Every living creature has its own smell, its own taste. I can taste their sweets, their sours, their salts…every flavor you can imagine. From the scent they give off, I know what they will taste like before their skin is even broken."

I pause to gauge her reaction. Her face shows no distress, so I continue.

"Animal blood is acrid. Gamey even, similar to the taste of their flesh. It takes getting used to. The flavor isn't as pronounced—or as palatable as human blood."

Isabella sits up and folds her hands in her lap.

"What do I smell like?"

I knew this question was bound to be broached. How do I tell the woman I love that her blood is the greatest temptation of all?

"Isabella, I—"

"I want to know."

Closing my eyes, I inhale the air. Her fragrance is ingrained in my senses, but I still delight in breathing her in. As I do, I tell her.

"You smell like honey left outside on a warm, sunny day: sweet and thick. A touch of Lily of the Valley. Earthy, woodland moss tempers your sweetness."

I open my eyes and sit up, moving close to her.

"And something else I can't put my finger on." I stroke her cheek, my gaze roaming over her lovely face. "It's just…you. It's _Isabella_. And I struggle with my desire for your blood every minute of every day."

She draws in a breath. "How do you manage to be around me?"

"Nothing worth having is without effort. I endure it because you've brought light to my existence."

I slide my hands up her arms. "Warmth."

I press her hand to my chest. "Love."

She winds her arms around my neck.

"Everything," I whisper.

Isabella sighs against me and when I kiss her, I feel her doubts melt away.

My Isabella has come back to me.

* * *

Autumn's palette is fading. Flowers die off. Days become shorter. Chilly nights create a carpet of frost, hardening the ground.

Winter is approaching.

The cold and snow are no hindrance to me, but with Isabella here, I have to think ahead. We'll need to go into town and purchase the provisions she'll require over the long months ahead.

On the day of our planned trip, Isabella is feeling indisposed, so I decide to go by myself. I don't like leaving her by herself, but she assures me she'll be fine.

I can't help but worry, though—I know what dangers can lurk in the woods.

Once in town, I conclude my business in town in a hasty manner. After loading the cart, I head home, anxious to get back to Isabella.

I bring the horse to a stop in the clearing in front of my house. Jumping to the ground, I prepare to unload the provisions when I'm assaulted by a delicious scent.

Isabella.

My curiosity piqued by the intensity of her aroma, I desert the task at hand.

Walking around to the back of the house, it hits me: she's bathing.

I can hear the water. Smell her nakedness.

I should turn away right now, be the gentleman I sometimes struggle to be when I'm around her.

But like Eve in the Garden, I'm tempted.

I approach the window silently and peer in, mesmerized.

She's facing away from me, her body exposed from the waist up. Her hair is piled on top of her head and she's humming softly. She brings the sponge to her shoulder and squeezes, the water running in rivulets down the expanse of her back.

She lifts the sponge to her opposite shoulder, the motion twisting her back into a sensual curve. I get the sudden urge to paint her this way; I wonder if she would allow me. My body heats up at the thought and I shift my stance in response.

Isabella pauses and turns her head to the side, looking out the window. She catches my eye just as I step to the side. I press myself against the wall and wait for her to scream.

But she doesn't.

Compelled to look again, I slowly slip back to the window.

I've been caught—and she doesn't seem to care.

Isabella has turned to the side, her upper body in profile. As if on cue, she closes her eyes and tilts her head back, bringing the sponge to her neck. She drags it past her collarbone and over her breast, down her stomach until it disappears into the water.

Reining in the perversion to continue watching her, I back away into the coolness of the woods. With thoughts of Isabella wet and gasping underneath me, I reach inside my trousers and stroke myself to climax, ashamed of my actions, but powerless to stop.

Disgusted and remorseful, I make my way back to the house.

She's in the kitchen, standing near the fire, tending to a pot of water.

I walk straight to her and put my hands on her hips, holding her in place, too shamed to face her.

"I'm sorry," I say.

Silence.

"Are you angry with me?"

She shakes her head.

"I couldn't tear my eyes away, Isabella. I knew it was wrong, but God help me, you're so beautiful. Can you forgive me?"

She sighs. "I'm equally guilty. Once I knew you were there, I… I wanted you to look at me."

My hands encircle her waist and I press my face into her neck. Her hair is still slightly damp from her bath, her skin warm and soft; she smells like violets.

"Please let me paint you," I murmur against the soft down at the nape of her neck. "From behind. Your naked back." I gather her hair in a bunch and hold it at the top of her head. "Your hair up." I kiss her behind her ear and she shivers.

"Please, Isabella," I beg.

She turns around to face me. Her body is hot from the fire, but the heat of her gaze penetrates me more.

"Yes," she breathes.

* * *

I pace the room, waiting for Isabella to enter. The candles I've lit are more for her benefit than mine; I'm hoping their ambiance will set her at ease. My fingers are eager to hold a brush, my mind racing ahead to how I envision her. I've filled countless canvases over the last seventy years, but never have I looked forward to creating one as much as this.

The door clicks open and Isabella walks into the parlor, a long white robe covering her. I walk over to her and take her hand, leading her to a low bench I've placed in the middle of the room. She sits and picks up the shawl that's folded on the end of the seat. She looks up at me, waiting for my instructions.

"I'll turn my back and you may remove your robe. Drape the shawl across your shoulders so it flows down your back. When you're ready, I'll position you and then we'll begin."

She nods her head. I walk back to my canvas, close my eyes and wait.

The crackle of the fire, the rustle of fabric, the creak of the wooden bench—my anticipation magnifies everything tenfold.

"I'm ready," she says quietly.

When I turn back to her, the scene is everything I'd imagined it to be. My breath catches in my throat.

The candles illuminate the room in a soft golden hue. Isabella's bare back glows with a lustrous sheen. The hair piled on top of her head flickers and blazes like copper sparks.

The shawl drapes down her back, but not nearly enough. I need to see more. Approaching her quietly, I touch her shoulders.

"Stand up," I say softly and she complies. "I need to adjust your shawl. I would like to see your entire back, if I may." She nods, so I take hold of the edge.

Slowly, I drag the fabric down the middle of her back. My fingers glide down her spine, uncovering more and more of her body. As the shawl lowers, so do I.

On my knees, I press my thumbs into the dimples on her lower back.

The shawl slips off Isabella's right shoulder. Still, I want to see more.

I pull until her backside is partially exposed. My fingers linger against her and her skin erupts in gooseflesh.

"Are you cold?" I ask, still on my knees, wanting to sink my teeth into her voluptuous bottom.

"No," she whispers.

With regret, I rise up and instruct her to sit on the bench. I make final adjustments to both the shawl and Isabella's pose. When I'm satisfied, I step back and admire my muse.

She's perfect.

Her slender fingers are resting delicately atop her shoulders. There's a slight glimpse of her breast behind her right arm. I see the fullness of her hips. The cleft of her backside.

God…the curve of her back.

"Are you comfortable?" I ask, my voice husky with longing.

"I am."

"I'll work quickly, Isabella," I say tenderly.

Because I long to touch you again.

As I paint, I imagine it's my fingers and not the charcoal sweeping along the lines of her back. I imagine it's my mouth on the slope of her breast and not the brush. And as I dab the rag onto the contours of her backside, I imagine how it would feel to press my erection against her supple flesh.

My hand is trembling and I pause to calm myself before continuing.

The clock on the mantle ticks away the minutes as I complete her portrait. The last stroke ends with a flourish and the painting is complete. I don't usually date my art, but it seems important that I do it this time.

A turning point.

I step back to appraise. My eyes dart between subject and canvas.

My work pales in comparison to the real Isabella.

Alive and warm, sitting in front of me.

I put down my brush and palette. Wipe my hands on my rag.

"Are you finished?" she asks, a tinge of excitement in her voice.

"Yes." I walk to her, yet I'm not ready for this moment to end.

Isabella lowers her arms and proceeds to gather up the shawl. When she hears me behind her, she starts to turn.

"Stop," I command.

"Edward, what—"

"Don't move yet…stay just as you are."

I place my hands on her bare shoulders and drop again to my knees. My fingers slide down her back, stopping when they reach the edge of the shawl gathered around her waist. I toy with the edge of the fabric, slipping my fingers under to stroke her skin. Isabella's breathes speed up and when I press a kiss to the center of her glorious back, she gasps.

"You're exquisite, Isabella. Your skin, your smell…" I pause to lick between her shoulder blades. "…your taste."

Lifting her arms above her head, I kiss my way across her shoulder blade. I pull back and brush the backs of my fingers against the side of her breast. I let go of her arms but she keeps them raised and I slip my hands around her waist, resting them over the bunched up garment on her lap. Isabella parts her legs slightly and I groan at the thought of what she might allow me to do.

I rest my forehead against her back, panting like a dog.

"Isabella, please…I want to touch you…as a husband touches his wife. Please let me touch you."

She sucks in a breath. "Oh, Edward…yes…"

Over thin layers of fabric, I press down gently with my fingers, seeking heat. Isabella drops her arms and places her hand on top of mine, guiding me. Our hands move together slowly, rubbing up and down the juncture of her thighs. Her hips move in response, and she suddenly pushes my hand firmly down until I can feel the most intimate part of her. My fingers pick up her rhythm as I learn which touches make her writhe, while my other arm reaches up to caress her breast.

She's breathing hard and I get caught up in her ecstasy. I twist my head around to kiss and nuzzle her breast. Tongue her nipple. Isabella arches up and with a quiet moan, shudders with pleasure.

Suddenly I'm fighting the urge to push her forward and fuck her like an animal.

I sink my teeth into her shoulder, but not enough to break skin. Venom flows from my mouth, dripping down her chest, her back; I suppress the bittersweet agony of it not mingling with her blood.

Isabella collapses against me, spent. I kiss her neck softly, keeping my lips pressed against her carotid artery until it slows to a steady cadence.

We sit quietly for a few minutes. My immediate lust for her subsides, but my love for her is even greater than I thought possible. I want her to be mine, if she'll have me.

Forever…if she'll let me.

I gently ease her into a sitting position and turn her around to face me. Her hair has come undone from the pins, her face is flushed and there are tears in her eyes. I've never seen her more beautiful.

I cover her up with the shawl and take her hands in mine. Once again, I find myself on my knees in front of her.

"Marry me, Isabella."

* * *

**A/N: I just found out Twelve Months has been nominated for a Sunflower Award, Best Romance Story! Thank you very much to the person who nominated it!**

**Thanks so much for reading**!


	12. November

**_Twilight_ and its characters are owned by Stephenie Meyer.**

**Love and thanks to arfalcon, she's the best.**

* * *

**~November~**

Black.

Wool, speckled with white snowflakes.

Lingering briefly before melting into the fabric of Isabella's coat.

I take her hand and lift her out of the trap and into my arms.

My bride.

I pull away to look into her eyes. I have to ask again.

"Are you sure?"

She takes my hand and places it over her heart; its steady beat reassures me before her words do.

"I've never been more certain of anything. My life is with you now. Forever."

Forever. I don't know if her idea of forever is the same as mine, but it doesn't matter—I'll take whatever she is willing to give me.

I smile and offer her my arm. Together, we walk up the steps to the courthouse.

One hour later, we emerge, husband and wife.

When we reach the sidewalk, I wrap my arms around her waist and spin her around. She's laughing, I'm laughing, and the people who pass us on the street are smiling.

I'm delirious with happiness.

After so many years, I believe there must be a God after all.

* * *

Isabella and I spend our first few hours of married life strolling the streets, holding hands and peering into shop windows. She rejects my offer to buy whatever catches her eye, insisting she doesn't need anything.

"Am I not allowed to spoil my wife with gifts?" I ask, circling my arms around her waist.

"You spoil me enough already," she says, but her eyes are fixed on the display window of the shop in front of us.

I follow her gaze to a dress gracing a mannequin in the corner of the window.

"Do you like that dress? It would look exquisite on you."

Isabella nods. "I've always loved that particular shade of green."

"Let me buy it for you. As a wedding gift."

"But I have nothing to give you!"

"Nonsense. You agreed to be my wife, that's the only gift I need." I pause, my licentious thoughts getting the better of me. "Besides, the dress will be a gift for me, too.

"How so?" she asks, laughing.

"I'll be able to see the lovely flush of your skin when I take it off you," I whisper into her ear.

I close my eyes and relish her reaction to my words. Hearing the sounds, feeling the physiological changes only a human body undergoes, I focus on her allure.

Human…

I've found my thoughts wandering lately to other possibilities, other scenarios.

Would she want that? Unlike what happened to me, Isabella would have a choice.

Could I do it? Take her life, her soul, even though she might think that's what she wants?

"Edward?" Isabella's voice draws me from my internal debate.

"I'm sorry, I was deep in thought."

She reaches up and smoothes my brow. "What were you thinking about?"

"You," I say, gathering her in my arms. "Always you."

* * *

Stars peek from behind breaking clouds; the moon soon joins in their celestial game. Dark and light at the same time, much like my existence.

But light is prevailing.

The crunch of wheels on snow cuts through the silence of the woods. Isabella is quiet, wrapped in a blanket and pressed into my side.

"Are you tired?" I ask when we arrive home.

"A little."

"Come inside. I'll light a fire and you can warm yourself with a cup of tea."

I take her hand and lead her to the house. When we get to the door, I pick her up and she laughs when I carry her across the threshold.

"Welcome home, Mrs. Cullen."

"Mrs. Cullen," she repeats. "It has a lovely ring to it."

"Mmm, I agree," I say, kissing her before finally setting her down. The feel of her body sliding down my own further ignites my growing excitement. I want nothing more than to pick her back up and carry her into the bedroom. Slowly unwrap her and replace her clothes with my body.

"Now then, shall I make you that cup of tea?" I ask, busying myself with lighting the oil lamp on the table beside the door instead of ravaging her on the spot.

"Actually, I don't believe I want tea." She comes up behind me, her body grazing mine. "I think I'd like to go to bed," she says quietly. "Will you join me, husband?"

Desire beats inside my chest. I close my eyes and inhale a deep breath, savoring her scent.

Commit this moment to memory.

I turn around and gaze into her eyes. "Yes."

Isabella retreats down the hall and I follow her to the bedroom. When we enter, she walks to the bed and sits on the edge, bending over to unbutton her shoes. I place the lamp on the dressing table and turn to the wood stove to start a fire. Once my task is complete, I turn back around to find Isabella still sitting on the edge of the bed. Moonlight streams through the window, gracing us with heavenly light.

We stare at each other for a few moments, the room filling with intense anticipation. Without a word, Isabella stands and turns her back to me. I watch transfixed as she slips her dress off her shoulders, as her petticoat falls to the floor.

She reaches up and loosens her hair, allowing it to cascade past her shoulders and down her back. Clad only in her camisole and knickers, she turns to face me and my breath catches. The moon casts its silvery glow on her pale skin, lending her an almost otherworldly appearance.

"You are so beautiful," I say as I walk toward her.

She closes her eyes as I reach out and caress her naked shoulders, watching in fascination as the straps slip down her alabaster skin; I'm still in awe that she's mine. I brush my thumbs across her breasts, drag my fingers down her stomach. Reach around and trace the curve of her bottom through thin fabric, my hands shaking with desire.

I thank God for taking pity on my cursed existence and sending me this angel. I only hope I'm worthy of His gift and that I have the strength to temper my bloodlust.

I look up at her face again, her head tilted back, mouth slightly parted and another flush of want washes through me. I can't wait to feel her stretched out underneath me. I need to feel myself inside her.

The smell of her blood is spiked with her own arousal, its heady aroma made more potent by her exposed skin. It pulses against the walls of her vessels, a seductive call playing to my most primitive of urges.

She kisses me, pulls me close.

Touches me...

"Isabella," I groan, pulling away, needing to explain how I feel. "Your blood tonight—it's tempting me beyond reason. I'm struggling to be good, but it's so damn hard."

"You won't hurt me. I feel it, here," she says, taking my hand and placing it over her heart.

I hope she's right. I want to believe my love for her is greater than my desire for her blood.

I sweep her up and carry her to the bed, laying her down gently. She holds her arms out, knowing what I am, yet still wanting me. That knowledge stirs something primal inside me.

Lowering myself over her, I test the limits of my nature on her welcoming body.

Lick her wrist.

Nuzzle the crook of her elbow.

Draw her nipple into my mouth through the cotton covering her breast.

Kiss her bare knee.

Slip my fingers between her legs...

Come undone over her gasps of pleasure.

Buttons are released, drawstrings are loosened and clothing is discarded.

Isabella and I are on our knees, facing each other.

"Isabella, I—"

"I trust you," she says.

And she does. I see it in her eyes. Feel it in her touch.

I stroke her cheek with my fingers. "I love you," I say and she falls back, pulling me with her. Isabella opens herself to me and I settle between her legs. Desire has heightened the sweet smell of her blood to a dangerous level, so with one last swallow of venom, I banish the urge to bite to the deepest recesses of my mind.

I take her hands and raise them over her head, entwining my fingers with hers.

"I love you," she whispers before I finally, finally push into her.

God...

Heat like I've never felt before spreads throughout my body. Seeps into my bones and warms me from the inside out.

I gaze into her eyes in wonder and by the way she is staring at me, I know she feels it, too.

"Edward, oh...I never knew..."

"Isabella, you feel—" I start before she silences me with her mouth.

Every inch of my skin comes alive from her touch. I press deeper, needing to feel closer, wanting to crawl inside her. I'm swept away by the sight of her face, the soft sounds spilling from her lips, the intensity of our connection.

I don't want this feeling to end. But my body craves release, so I speed up, grunting toward relief. My efforts are frenzied, part man, part beast, but I stay in command. My fervor seems to excite Isabella and I'm desperate for her to let go. I reach down to touch her and she moans and falls apart, beautiful and erotic in her loss of control. I bury my face in her neck and crying out her name, my body surrenders to ecstasy.

Afterward, as we lie wrapped in each other's arms, I realize that not once during our lovemaking did I think about her blood.

I smile and tuck her in closer.

Salvation has finally come to me.

* * *

Some hours later, I prop myself on my elbow, staring down at Isabella, willing her to awaken so I can love her again. Time creeps by as I fight the urge to touch her.

When she finally stirs, I pull her sleep-warmed body against mine, drowning in her dizzying aroma.

"Please," I beg, my hands hungry as they move all over her skin, touching, stroking.

"Yes," she answers, and I roll on top her, groaning low and long when I enter her. I take my time and love her slowly, deeply, never wanting this feeling to end. Words of endearment spill from my lips and tumble onto her cheek, her neck, her shoulder. She chants my name over and over in time with our rhythm and all too soon we both cry out in pleasure, breathless and spent.

I fall onto my back and Isabella curls up next to me. She swirls her fingers in an idle pattern back and forth across my chest, lulling me into a trance-like state.

"I'm so happy," she says after a few minutes. She lifts up to look at me and her hair spills across my torso, making me want her again.

I reach out and stroke my fingers through her hair. "Beautiful Isabella. You don't know how long I've waited for you."

She crawls up my chest, her touch burning a trail along my skin.

"Tell me," she says, her lips warm against mine.

"The first moment I saw you, I thought I had stumbled into a dream. Your dark hair was so vivid against your white cape. Then I caught a glimpse of your face and I felt all the air rush out of my lungs. I desired your blood, but was smitten by your beauty."

I take hold of her waist and pull her on top of me. Her hair encloses us further into our own private world.

"The first time I touched you, I marveled at the softness of your skin." I run my fingers along her cheeks, down her sides and up her back. "I fantasized about how soft your bare legs would feel, how the nape of your neck would smell, how sweet your flesh would taste under my tongue."

"Oh," she whispers, her heart quickening, her hips pushing into mine.

I sit up, taking her with me, holding her close.

"But then I discovered your intelligence, your strength, your compassion…" I say, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "And your heart…" I lay my hand over her right breast. "And that's when I fell in love with you."

"Edward," she breathes, her eyes wet with unspilled tears. She raises herself slightly, and when we join together, we love each other unhurried, face to face before the burgeoning dawn.

* * *

November passes by quickly now that Isabella and I are man and wife. We spend the days preparing for a winter that has yet to show her strength. Our nights—and often times our days—are spent in bed, laughing and loving. My desire for her has only increased and Isabella matches my appetite with unbridled enthusiasm.

She doesn't question me when I take to the woods by myself. Hunting is a harsh reminder of what I am—and what Isabella is not. We've yet to speak of what the future holds for us, so I push it to the back of my mind. Some day…but not yet, not when we're so damn happy.

I've neglected my thirst the past few days, so while Isabella is curled on the sofa, lost in a book, I slip out of the house to hunt. Before too long, I hear and smell my prey; it's not at all what I was expecting.

Ahead of me, in the clearing, stands a large bull moose. I haven't seen one in the area in several years and I smile in anticipation. I creep silently to the edge of the field, offer my thanks as well as my forgiveness and give chase. The great beast is fast, but no match for my own speed. Within seconds, I have him down, steadying his thrashing antlers as I pierce his flesh. He puts up a mighty fight and jerks his head wildly, blood spurting onto my face. I cover the gaping wound with my hand, allowing a trickle to seep through my fingers and into my greedy mouth. Using every ounce of my strength, I hold him in place and with one last mournful bellow, he succumbs. As soon as I feel his heart stop beating, I remove my hand and drink.

His taste is a pleasant change from my usual fare and I close my eyes, relief washing through me as his blood slides over my tongue. He is a large animal, more than enough to slake my thirst. Despite my fullness, I drink on, not wanting to waste any of his precious elixir.

Lost in a near drunken state of satisfaction, I don't hear her approach. Surrounded by fresh blood, I don't smell her presence. But something makes me open my eyes and when I do, she's standing a few feet from me, watching me.

I rise and wipe my blood-covered mouth with my sleeve. I know by the expression on my face that she finally sees what I am. I wait for her to speak.

"I…I wanted to see what it was like," she says. "Ever since my dream, I can't stop thinking about it. Can't stop thinking about watching you while you're…" Her voice trails away, but I know what she wants to say.

"Feeding?" I start toward her. "That's what it is, Isabella." She doesn't say anything, just continues to stare at the slaughtered carcass. I wonder if she finally understands the truth of what I am.

"Is it what you expected?"

She shakes her head slowly.

"There's nothing civilized about it, is there? It's animal instinct, pure and simple."

"I'm your wife, Edward, I pledged myself to you. I want to know everything about you."

"Are you sure? Some things are better left unspoken." I start to circle around her, closing in as if she were my prey. "My existence is driven by the need for blood. For God's sake, Isabella, blood! It's perverse and unnatural." I step behind her, twisting her hair around my hand and leaning in to sniff her neck. "No matter how much I love you, there will always be a part of me that will crave the taste of your blood. And I hate myself for it."

I release her hair and Isabella turns around to face me. "Didn't you hear what I said? I don't care. I love you." She reaches out with one finger and touches my blood-stained mouth. "All of you." She leans in and kisses me, her tongue sweeping along my bottom lip.

Absolving me of my sins.

Lust blooms deep inside my belly and I kiss her back, hard. Our heated breaths create a fog around our heads in the chilly air, reminding me it's too cold to take her in the middle of this field.

I pick her up and run as fast as I can back to the house. As soon as we burst through the door, I set her down and tug her into the parlor, pushing her down on her hands and knees onto the carpet. My hands frantically bunch up her skirts and I let out a sharp breath when I touch the hot flesh between her thighs. I free myself from my trousers and slide into her, groaning from the relief only she can give me.

"Ah, yes," she moans and she shoves back against me, making me buck into her harder. I fuck her with wild abandon, surrendering myself to pure, unabashed pleasure.

I can tell by the way she's moving, by the sounds she's making that she's close to her release. I fold myself over her, pressing my chest into her back, my hand snaking around her waist to touch her between her legs. When I do, she twists her head, her lips seeking mine.

"Bite me, oh God, please bite me," she whispers into my mouth.

Her words set me on fire. I bury my head in her neck, my mouth drawn to her pounding pulse; the thought of biting her while I'm inside her makes me shiver with excitement.

"Isabella, no…don't ask me—"

"I want to be like you, please, make me like you."

I shake my head, but my teeth are already clamping down on her shoulder. This is madness—I need her to let go now, so I move my hand faster, thrust my hips harder.

Isabella throws her head back and cries out in pleasure. I scrape my teeth along her neck, sucking hard. The vibrations from her throat shoot straight to my groin and I spill inside her.

We collapse to the floor and I roll off her. A few minutes later, after I gather my wits, I prop myself on my arm, looking down at her.

"Did I hurt you?" I ask, stroking her delicate face.

"No."

Silence hangs over us like a dark cloud. A sense of foreboding washes over me.

"I don't understand," she says.

"I don't expect you to."

"Can you share your reasoning?"

I sigh and sit up, pulling her with me, taking her hands in mine.

"Do you realize what you're asking me? What you'd be giving up? Life, Isabella."

"Life? If you mean mortality, I don't give a fig about 'life'. Growing old, falling ill? How would it look, Edward, with you escorting me around town when I'm aged and weathered? Would you even desire me?"

"I will always desire you, Isabella, never doubt that."

"My blood, perhaps, but what about me?"

"You will always be the same on the inside," I say, placing my hands on her cheeks.

Just a few days ago I was contemplating changing her; I'm not sure why I've had a sudden change of heart.

"Besides, you're young and healthy, we have years and years ahead— "

"You don't know that!" she says, interrupting. "I could collapse tomorrow from a sudden fever."

She's right, course. She's human.

I've been so happy the past few months that I've almost convinced myself I'm human, too.

"I have no one left in my life, Edward, only you. I love you and want to spend eternity by your side; you have the gift to make that happen. Why is this so hard for you to understand?"

"Gift? If you think the ability to end your life, destroy your soul and your chance of eternal salvation is a gift, you are sorely mistaken. Why would you want to be such a damnable creature? I had no choice—this existence was forced upon me. You have a choice, Isabella. Please live your life as it was meant to be: alive, warm, heart pumping. I'll be with you every step of the way. I will not abandon you."

"I want to be like you," she repeats petulantly, rising to her feet and walking to stand in front of the fire.

Stubborn, headstrong woman! I need to make her understand what she's really asking.

"Let's imagine I do change you," I say, anger creeping into my voice. "The first few months will be brutal. You'll have an insatiable thirst for blood. Human blood, Isabella. Every person you pass will set your throat on fire, bring out the beast in you. You'll want to rip their flesh open and drain them dry." I move directly behind her. "Man, woman, or child, it doesn't matter. You'll be thirsty and you will want to slaughter them."

She lets out a deep breath and I hope I've finally struck a nerve. She turns, throwing her arms around me, crying into my chest. I stroke her hair and shush her softly until she quiets down.

"But you'll be there to help me, won't you?" she asks, looking up at me, her tear-stained face shimmering in the glow of the fire. "You didn't have anyone to guide you during those first few months; I'll have you. You won't let me stumble, will you, Edward?"

And with that heart-wrenching plea, she has me.

How can I deny her?

If she stays human, she will live out her life naturally and I will lose her one day.

If I make her immortal, we will be together always.

Soulless, but together. Happy.

I wipe away her tears and press my forehead to hers.

"I won't let you stumble. I promise."

Isabella kisses me, fresh tears falling down her lovely face.

"Thank you."

We rock back and forth for a few minutes. I still have a nagging doubt, pricking my insides like a sharp thorn.

"There is one stipulation I must insist on before you make your final decision."

"But I've already made up my mind."

"Please, Isabella, hear me out."

She pulls out of my embrace and looks at me with curiosity. "Very well, go on."

I sigh before continuing. "If I'd been given a choice, I wouldn't have chosen this path. Then again, the circumstances of my change were completely different—I was neither married nor in love. I wouldn't wish this so-called life on anyone. However, I'm a selfish creature and the thought of one day being without you is unimaginable. I have the power to alter that eventuality, but I cannot proceed without showing you the dark side of my nature. If after you see what it really means to be a vampire, you still want to carry out your wish, then I'll agree."

"I've already seen you hunt, Edward, there's no need…"

Her voice trails off as she digests the true meaning of my words.

"Not animals, Isabella. Human beings."

Isabella blinks a few times before swallowing hard. I pull her back into my arms and she looks up, gazing at me with concern.

"You haven't had human blood in decades," she says. "I can't let you do that."

"You have to see. You need to know."

"You would do that…for me?"

"I would do anything for you."

She looks pale. I've frightened her—rightfully so.

"When?" she whispers.

"Not tonight. I'm weary of this talk. I want to take you to bed and hold you. I want to pretend my heart is still beating; I want to imagine it pounding when you touch me. I want to feel the rush of blood through my veins when you kiss me and whisper in my ear. Come with me, Isabella, take me there, my love."

She leads me to the bedroom. Once we're naked and entangled in each other's arms, she succeeds, for a little while, in making me feel human again.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you so much for reading, your support means so much to me! Thanks also go out to the ladies at PPSS for their lovely review and beautiful banner. **


	13. December

**_Twilight_ and its characters are owned by Stephenie Meyer.**

**Thanks to arfalcon for her amazing beta work. I can't wait to hug her in person next month. :D**

**I apologize for the length of time between updates. *hangs head in shame* Since it's been a while, here's a brief summary of the previous chapter: Edward and Isabella are now married and enjoying wedded bliss. Edward catches Isabella watching him as he feeds, but she doesn't recoil in horror as he expects. Rather, she wants him to change her so they can be together forever. Edward finally agrees, but under one condition: Isabella must stand witness while he feeds from a human. If she is still willing after seeing his true nature, he will abide by her wishes.**

* * *

**~December~**

Red.

Blood, pooling in crevices between filthy cobblestones.

Human blood, thick and piquant, spilt by my teeth.

Decades of painfully crafted control wiped clean in a single moment.

I open my eyes, the scene in my mind taking shape on my canvas.

Death brought to life by my brush, my creation a testament to my dark desires.

These desires linger in the forefront of my mind, distract me. Ever since I laid out my terms to Isabella, I can't stop thinking about tasting human blood.

_Laid out my terms. _Cold and unfeeling words. Bartering with Isabella's soul as if I were Satan himself.

Disgusted, I step back to look at the painting I've created; it's dark and foreboding, fitting my mood.

I've tried not to slip into despair, tried not to allow it to affect my new life with Isabella, but it's been difficult. Neither of us has spoken about it since that night, but there is an undercurrent of tension between us.

It's there during our day-to-day interaction. It's there at night when I make love to her. It's there when she's sleeping and I'm watching her jugular vein throb, threatening to pull me under.

Trying to drown me when I've only just surfaced.

I question my reasons for asking her to witness the taking of a human life. I only want her to understand the true nature of being a vampire. Despite my vow to consume only animal blood, the craving for human blood never goes away. It lies dormant, waiting for the perfect moment—the perfect person—to coax it from its slumber.

If she never knew the taste of human blood, would she still crave it? If I immediately introduced her to animal blood, would she never wonder the difference?

Everything is uncertain, so I continue to hold my tongue. So does Isabella.

I find it ironic the winter solstice is approaching, the darkest day of the year. Ancient people celebrated with a last feast before winter set in, uncertain if they would survive the harsh months ahead. But it also marks the reversal of the sun's ebbing presence in the sky. Hope that light will soon return. Rebirth.

I pray Isabella and I will survive, too.

* * *

I return from my hunt in the woods to find Isabella outside gazing up at the sky. It's a clear evening and the stars gleam bright against the black night. I stand beside her and together we contemplate the heavens.

"Breathtaking, isn't it?" she says after a few minutes. "All those stars—it's intriguing to imagine another world like ours somewhere out there. Sometimes I wonder if there's a creature on another planet looking up at the same stars and asking themselves the same question."

"I expect mankind might find out one day. We've made great advances in the past hundred years...imagine what the next hundred will bring?"

She turns to look at me and I know what she's thinking. _We could watch it as it happens, live it together. Until the end of time._

"I don't want to imagine, Edward, I want to see it. My mind is made up."

Why can't I just take her now? It would be so easy. Every fiber of my being is screaming to bite her, savor her blood. Give her what she wants—what I want.

If it weren't for the nagging voice in my head, the one part of me that's never fully transformed into a monster, I would gladly grant her wish and change her. Right here, right now, under the moon and stars.

Damn my conscience.

I have to see this decision through. The longer I wait, the more difficult it will be.

But at the moment, I find procrastination more agreeable. I pull her into my arms, my hands twining in her hair. I nuzzle her neck and stroke my hands down her back. When I reach her backside, I squeeze gently and pull her hips flush to mine.

I can't deny I won't miss her warmth and the dangerous allure of her scent. The fantasy of biting her has taken root in my mind, growing stronger every time we make love. To pierce her flesh as I move inside her. To taste her sweet blood as she climaxes around me...I can think of no greater physical pleasure.

She presses her lips to my ear. "Take me to bed."

I take her hand and lead her into the house. Once inside, Isabella takes charge, undressing me before shedding her clothing. She pushes me onto the bed, hovering over me, teasing me with the roll of her hips. Sliding down my body, she takes me in her hand, her mouth. Crawls back up, grazing me with wet heat, bringing me to the brink with her tortuous assault.

She's wild and wanton as she moves over me. Lips parted, cheeks flushed—a living portrait, a study in unrestrained desire. I know what she's doing. She's trying to show me her physical prowess, her determination to have her way, and I allow her to do as she pleases because it feels so damned good. She nips at my bottom lip and scratches her nails along my flesh, testing my own resolve. Goading me into an act for which she thinks she's ready.

God, I want to taste her. Just a few drops of her blood on my tongue, enough to assuage the burning in my mouth. Surely it would do no harm? Surely I would be able to stop?

When she pushes her finger into my mouth, I falter. I bite down, just enough to prick her tender flesh. Just enough to break the tiny vessels in the pad of her finger and release a minuscule drop of blood.

Oh.

Her blood, dear God, her blood!

It's sweet and tangy. Warm and thick. Pulsing with her essence, her desire.

It arouses me. It soothes me. It traps me. It frees me.

All these feelings from a single droplet of her blood.

How will I ever go back? How can I settle for less than perfection?

Isabella feels it a few moments after I do. Her eyes widen and she stops moving. We stare at each other, frozen in a mix of fear and desire.

Unable and unwilling to stop, I suck a little harder on her finger, draw a few more drops from her wound. Isabella inhales a deep breath and shudders, collapsing on me, panting into my neck, biting at my skin as if she were a vampire herself.

Her loss of control ignites a fire deep in me. I roll her onto her back and push inside her. Slow, deep. My face close to hers, our breath mingling. I remove her finger from my mouth, hold it tight in my hand as I continue to lick and suck at her wound. If she feels pain, she doesn't show it; all I see is pleasure.

We grunt and groan like animals. I'm insatiable, Isabella's blood a powerful aphrodisiac. My language becomes coarse and vulgar as I whisper to her how she makes me feel. What I want to do to her. She moans in response.

My inner beast has been unleashed.

I've never felt so out of control, yet in command at the same time.

I continue to stroke long and deep. I want to possess her completely. I want to make her feel as invincible as I do right now. If I had known tasting her blood would make me feel this way, I might have bitten her on our wedding night.

Isabella's movements become erratic as she nears her completion. I indulge one last time, sucking hard on her finger as she cries out beneath me. The taste of her blood sweetens ten-fold with her climax. Thoughts, images invade my mind. Sensations the like I've never felt before course through me.

Bite hard. Drink deep.

Let go.

As Isabella comes down from bliss, I'm cresting. Holding on by a thread. It's only with the greatest of effort I release her finger. She pulls me close and with a roar, I empty inside her.

For the first time in many years, I feel out of breath. Alive and exhausted combined. As soon as I gather my wits, I open my eyes. Isabella is looking at me, her expression mirroring my own.

We stare at each other, our eyes communicating words our tongues cannot seem to form. I start to speak, but she places her finger—already healing—on my lips, hushing me. She snuggles into my side and we lie in silence; it's not too long before she drifts off. As Isabella sleeps, I replay everything in my mind.

Most of all, I recall how her blood tasted and felt in my mouth and how I want it again.

* * *

A sliver of dawn is visible from the window, a welcome symbol of the end of this eternal night. I can no longer suppress my need for her. I lay my head on her chest and listen to her heart, her breathing. My mouth finds her skin, warm and fragrant. I kiss one breast, then the other. Isabella stirs, her fingers weaving through my hair. My lips trail down her stomach, my hands part her thighs, my fingers caress her intimately. The pulse of her femoral artery tempts me and I press my mouth to the skin above it, feeling it throb under my tongue. I lick along its seductive course, from her inner thigh to the most sensitive part of her.

Just one more taste, one more drop...

My teeth press down, aching to cut through skin and muscle, my tongue longing to feel the spurt of hot blood. But I hold back the urge, because if I do puncture her flesh, I'm afraid I will destroy her.

So I turn my mouth back to her and lose myself in pleasuring her. After she quivers around me, I slide up her body and enter her. It's not long before I tremble in satisfaction.

Sated, yet still wanting.

We watch as the rising sun brightens our room. It lightens my mood, makes me feel less of a monster—until Isabella speaks.

"Why did you stop?"

I don't answer. She persists.

"I didn't want you to stop."

I rise and quickly dress. I walk to her side of the bed and run my hand through her tousled hair, then start to back out of the room before I change my mind.

"Neither did I."

* * *

It's the week before Christmas and Isabella has her mind set on putting up a tree. I haven't celebrated Christmas since I was changed, but I get caught up in her festive mood. I take her into the woods and she chooses a small pine tree which I chop down, carry home and place in the parlor.

"I don't have anything to hang on it. You'll have to be creative when it comes to decorations."

"It doesn't have to be fancy, Edward. We can cut out paper ornaments or use fruits, nuts, berries—whatever we can find."

"I have a better idea," I say, stepping behind her and wrapping my arms around her waist. "Let's go into town and buy tinsel and glass balls and candles or whatever else strikes your fancy." I turn her around to face me. "I want you to be happy."

"Being with you makes me happy, Edward. Although I do admit I would love to see the shop windows decorated for the season. Oh...do they also have a Christmas tree in the center of town?"

"They did last year. Electric lights and all. The large spruce near the entrance to our park."

"Perfect," she says, kissing me. "May we go right now?"

"Give me a few minutes to ready the trap. Dress warmly; the air will feel quite frigid once the sun has set."

Isabella nods as she pulls away from my arms. I set about hitching up the horse, looking forward to sharing an evening out with her.

I want to make the best of our first—and quite possibly our last—Christmas together.

* * *

The mood in town is festive. Shop windows are adorned with greenery and bright, colored balls. A group of carolers stroll the square, their voices sweet and clear. A street vendor sells roasted chestnuts from his cart. Children skate on the pond in the park. A Christmas postcard come to life.

Isabella clutches onto my arm, excitedly pointing out everything that catches her eye. She makes me feel light and merry; I'm swept up in the spirit of the season.

We stop in Mr. Elkins' shop to buy ornaments for the tree. He greets us warmly and ushers Isabella to his display of decorations. Thirty minutes later we emerge from the store, packages in hand.

"Is there anything else you'd like to do?" I ask. "We have a little time left before we should leave."

"The Christmas tree in the park…will they turn on the lights at dusk?"

"Yes, I expect so."

"May we stay to see the tree lit up? I would very much like to see it."

"Of course. If we hurry, we might be able to secure one of the benches surrounding the tree."

"Then what are we waiting for?" She laughs as she grabs my free hand, pulling me into the street.

We manage to find the last available bench, and we settle down, watching the sun disappear behind the trees. When the lights finally switch on, the audience gasps before clapping their hands in appreciation.

While Isabella is mesmerized by the twinkling lights, I only have eyes for her.

* * *

The wind turns harsh, biting hard. Isabella and I take the short route back to where I've left the trap. It runs through a sordid part of town, but I gamble that the cold weather has driven any criminals indoors. I'm not afraid of miscreants but I'd rather Isabella not witness any unsavory behavior.

Not tonight, this perfect night.

I hurry her through the dark, empty streets, both of us eager to return home and attend to the Christmas tree. I imagine myself sprawled on the sofa, watching her as she adorns the tree with the baubles we've purchased. When she's finished, I'll pull her onto my lap and together we'll admire her handiwork. I'll kiss her, run my hands over her body, coax the fire from within her. When she's burning hot, I'll slip my hands under her skirt, touch her, love her next to the warm glow of firelight...

We're nearly to the outskirts of town. The last few buildings loom ahead, run down and abandoned. The trap is hitched to a tree just beyond.

But we don't get that far, because that's when I smell him. Hidden in the shadows of a narrow alley. Alone. Vulnerable.

And I know this is the one.

God forgive me.

I stop and turn to Isabella, clasping her hands in mine, drawing her in close. I stroke a gloved finger to her cheek. She smiles.

"Remember that I will always love you. And I pray for your forgiveness."

Isabella frowns in confusion but her expression quickly turns to one of understanding. She has no time to protest, though; I pull her into the alley with inhuman swiftness, laying my finger against her lip in a silent command to stay quiet.

She's shaking as she presses herself against the wall. Before I change my mind, I turn from her and drop to my knees in front of the man sleeping in the shadows.

Adrenaline surges through me, dictating my actions. I'm losing myself.

Instinct takes over as I pull the poor soul from the ground, eyeing the pulse just visible beneath his tattered collar.

He opens his eyes, peering at me through heavy lids.

"What do you want? I don't have any money. Spent it all on whiskey and whores," he cackles, his words slurred.

"I don't want your money." I inhale deeply, ignoring his foul odor and fixing on the sweet aroma of his blood. It's diluted by alcohol, but still far more appealing than all the wild game in the world.

He tries to sit up. "Hey, hey now, I'm usually not that type of fellow, but if you can spare a few dollars, I'll tug on your prick for you."

I ignore his perverse proposition and lean in close. "You misunderstand my intent, sir. Allow me to ease your misery. Although you'll feel a little pain at first, soon you'll never again have to worry about being poor or drunk or riddled with disease."

His eyes are bloodshot and glassy; he struggles to focus. "Who are you?"

Ah, how I've missed this! This moment, the moment before I strike is like no other. The anticipation of the tear of human flesh, much more fragile than animal hide. The slight recoil as hot blood hits the back of my throat. The temporary easing of my never-ending thirst.

And right now I'm very thirsty.

"I'm your savior. Forgive me."

Deeper I fall, no longer cognizant of my surroundings. Focused on only one thing.

I wrench his head to the side and he cries out. I place my mouth to his neck and he starts to struggle. Pull back my lips and he goes limp. Just as my teeth press on his skin, something grips my shoulder, trying to pull me from my prey. I growl and spin around, prepared to protect what's mine. Through the red haze, I see a form fall to the ground, hear a voice call out.

"Edward, no! Stop, please!"

Isabella. Her voice pulls me from the darkness of my mind, back to the surface.

Horrified, I drop the man from my hold; he falls to the ground, unconscious now. Isabella picks herself up and grabs onto my arm with both hands, yanking me away. I slump against the wall and she follows, sobbing.

"I'm sorry, but I couldn't let you do it—I understand now, I understand!" she cries.

Images of the past few minutes bombard me. "Isabella, dear God, I, I attacked you...are you hurt?" I try to visually inspect her for injuries, but I'm still a bit disoriented. "I swear, if I harmed you, I will never forgive myself." She shakes her head, but she is still crying.

I am indeed an abominable creature.

I reach out to comfort her, hesitant, wondering if she will still have me. But before I can touch her, I hear voices in the distance. Reason takes over; finding my strength, I spring up and pull Isabella to her feet.

"Isabella, we have to go before we're discovered."

She wipes her eyes on her sleeve before glancing at the motionless figure sprawled on the ground. "Is he...?"

"He's alive. Drunk, but alive. Come, we must leave!"

I take her hand and as soon as I'm sure we're alone, I lead her from the alley. With one last look at the gentleman lying atop the cobbled stones, I can't help think how close my art came to imitating life.

* * *

As soon as we're far enough from town, I stop the trap and jump out. Isabella has not said a word to me since we left the alley. I'm filled with dread, sickened with disgust.

Waiting for her rejection.

It doesn't come. She stands silent while I agonize out loud. Berate myself for the danger I put her in, for even suggesting this foolish idea in the first place.

She will never have me now, I will lose her forever. She's with me for the moment, but once the horror of what she witnessed sinks in, she will slowly pull away.

And I will let her go.

"Edward? Please...talk to me." Her voice, soft, beseeching, plucking at my misery.

"I won't keep you here. Please don't feel as if you need to stay out of some sense of obligation. I have plenty of money, you'll never want for anyth—"

"What are you talking about? You can't possibly think I'm going to desert you?"

"I can disappear, Isabella. It will be as if I never existed." My words are thick as they spill from my mouth, threatening to choke me. "You will continue on with your life, meet a gentleman who will love you, who'll be able to give you children and a normal life, safe from harm."

"You stubborn man! Have you heard nothing I've said?" She sighs and gazes at me tenderly, as if she hasn't just witnessed a monstrous demonstration.

"How can you be so casual, so unaffected? For God's sake, Isabella, I had a man pushed against a wall, my mouth on his throat, ready to tear into his flesh! Why are you not running away?" I slump against the trunk of the tree and slide down until I'm on the ground, weary.

Isabella lowers herself onto her knees in front of me.

"Do you have so little faith in me? Have I not told you time and time again how much I love you?"

"Everyone has their limits, Isabella."

She reaches out and places her hands on my cheeks, looking deep into my eyes.

"You're a good man, Edward. I know you don't believe it, but it's true—your restraint in the alley proved that. You were kind to me when I needed a friend and never tried to take advantage of my situation."

"My thoughts were anything but kind. I desired you so very badly. Your blood, your body…"

"But you didn't act on those thoughts, you held them in check. Just as you did this evening. I was not unaffected by what I saw; I won't deny it was frightening. While I cannot pretend to understand the temptations you constantly endure, I do understand how you must struggle. Yet you don't act on your urges. A lesser man, I believe, would not fare so well."

"If you hadn't stopped me, I would have drained his body. I wanted to."

"If it wasn't for me, you never would have entered that alley."

"The urge is always there, Isabella. It never goes away."

"But you've learned to control it. And with your guidance, I will, too."

I fall silent, absorbing what she says.

"You stirred something deep inside me, Edward."

She still loves me. Still wants me to change her.

Isabella sits beside me, resting her head on my shoulder. "Do you realize you asked him to forgive you? No one without a soul would make such a request."

I press my face into her neck, overcome. Breathing her in, confirming she's real.

She shivers in my arms and I realize how cold she must be. I lift her up and carry her to the trap, wrapping her in a blanket before settling beside her.

Together we go home.

* * *

"Edward, they're lovely!" Isabella picks up one book from the stack surrounding her. Her fingers smooth over the soft leather cover before opening it and skimming through the pages. "I never dreamed I would own such a fine collection." She looks up at me, her eyes shiny with tears. "Thank you, they're perfect," she says quietly.

"I'm thrilled you're pleased with them" I say, pressing a kiss to her lips. "I look forward to lounging by the fire while you read passages to me. Your narrative voice is both relaxing and compelling, a dangerous combination." I grin and she lightly smacks my hand, tears abated.

"Now it's your turn," she says as she rises from the floor. "I'll be right back."

Isabella disappears from the parlor and my gaze turns back to the tree. In our haste to escape from the alley, we inadvertently left our packages behind; instead of tinsel and glass balls, we decorated with nuts and berries and paper chains.

That was three days ago. Tonight is Christmas Eve, and since nature decided to gift us with a snowstorm, Isabella thought it would be a perfect time to exchange presents.

She returns with a gold foil-wrapped package adorned with a red velvet ribbon and bow. She sits down beside me, smiling.

"Merry Christmas, Edward."

"What have you done, you vixen?"

Isabella is bouncing up and down on the floor. "You'll just have to open it to find out."

My first gift in seventy years. Feeling as impatient as a schoolboy, I tear apart the paper, set the box on the floor and lift the lid.

Inside rest six of the finest Kolinsky brushes I have ever seen. I pick up the mop brush, taking note of the handsomely varnished wood handle. I touch my fingers to the dark-tipped bristles of the filbert brush and delight in their bounce. I look with longing at the fan brush, imagining it thick with paint, gliding across my canvas.

"Edward? Are they suitable? Do you like them?"

Isabella's last question holds a tinge of doubt which I immediately put to rest.

"My darling, sweet girl. They're exquisite." I lean forward and kiss her softly. "Just like you. Thank you."

"Mr. Elkins said you've been waiting forever for these to come in. I begged him not to tell you they had arrived, as I wanted to give them to you as a Christmas present."

"They're the perfect gift. I can't wait to try them out."

I gather her into my arms and pull her down with me onto the rug in front of the fire.

"Your image will be the first one those brushes will help create."

"Surely you must be tired of painting me?"

"Never." I sit up and gaze down at her. Her eyes are bright, her cheeks flushed from the warmth of the fire. "In fact, I think I'll start right now." I pull her hair out from under her and fan it across the rug. "Mmm, beautiful." I reach for the belt of her robe, tugging gently.

"I've changed my mind—you're my favorite gift." I pull apart her robe, and then reach up to undo the thin ties at her bodice. "And I'm going to take my time unwrapping you."

I can see all of her underneath the thin fabric of her chemise. Taut nipples, dark curls—it would make for an erotic painting. I consider it briefly before I give in to lust and pull the garment off her. She holds her arms up to me and I strip off my clothes, lowering myself onto and into her welcoming body.

* * *

Isabella and I are still wrapped in each other's arms when the clock strikes midnight.

"Merry Christmas, Edward."

"Merry Christmas, my love."

"I do have something else for you," she says, shifting in my arms.

"Another gift? Whatever have I done to deserve such good fortune?"

"Opened your heart to me. Confided in me. Loved me."

"Isabella, I should be—"

"Shh." She takes my hand, placing my fingers on her neck.

Directly over her pulse.

"I'm ready, Edward."

The moment I've been fantasizing about, agonizing over for months is upon me. I promised her, but now that the time has come, I'm not sure I'm ready. Terrified I won't be able to stop.

She reads the doubt in my mind. "I believe in you, Edward. I always have."

I sit up and pull her with me. She takes my face in her hands; I search her eyes for resolve.

And I see it.

I nod.

She breaks down, cries. Throws her arms around me, thanks me, when I should be thanking her.

How do I express my gratitude to her for offering me this ultimate gift? How do I find the right words? How do I thank her for pulling me out of a pit of loneliness and despair, for bringing me back to life?

I will honor her request and fulfill my dreams. I'll give her forever.

I stand up. Offer her my hand. She takes it and rises. I cover her with her robe. Pull on my trousers.

"Come, Isabella."

I lead her into the bedroom. Turn to her, embrace her softness, inhale her scent, commit her last human moments to memory.

Her heart, her lovely, fluttering heart, dances against my chest. I understand it all now, see it with perfect clarity.

"We were born to be with each other, Isabella, I know it. I just had to bide my time, wait for you to find me, in this place, this time. Wait for you to sing to me, to lift me up. Oh, my love, my sweet savior."

I lay her down on the bed. She's breathing rapidly now, and her heart is beating a furious rhythm.

I sit beside her, stroking her hair, trying to soothe her.

She is frightened.

Despite my joy, I'm frightened, too.

"Tell me again, will it hurt very much?" she asks, her voice wavering.

Her eyes look to mine for reassurance. I don't want to upset her, but I can't lie to her.

"Yes," I say, nodding. "But not for very long. I won't leave your side, I swear to you."

I wait for her to tell me she's changed her mind.

She doesn't.

"Don't leave me," she pleads, clutching my shirt.

"Never," I say.

I lie down beside her. She turns on her side and I slide behind her, pulling her to my chest. I whisper words of comfort, tell her how happy she makes me. How beautiful she is.

How I can't wait to be with her forever.

A sense of calm settles over me.

I turn her face to mine and wipe away her tears. She reaches for my face and strokes my cheek. We lie in silence for a few minutes, staring at each other, memorizing these last moments. An angelic smile crosses her face and I know it's time.

"I'm ready," she says.

"I love you, Isabella."

"I love you, Edward."

She rests her head back on the pillow. I sit up and run my fingers through her hair. Touch her face. Lean forward and kiss her forehead, her lips, her neck.

Her throat.

I press my lips to the skin above her carotid artery. Feel the pounding of her pulse for the last time.

Open my mouth.

Press my teeth against her skin.

Push. Feel her flesh give.

Hear her gasp. Hold her tight to me.

Feel her blood rush over my tongue. Spurt down my throat.

Swallow.

Again and again and again.

Hold her tighter as she struggles.

I thought I was prepared.

I was wrong.

Sublime sensations wash through me. I'm lifted out of my body.

Time stops. Nothing else matters.

Nothing but this feeling of pure euphoria.

I finally understand.

Through the red haze that clouds my mind, I hear my name.

"Edward."

My eyes open, confused.

Closer now, the voice floats on the edge of my rapture.

"You promised."

Isabella's voice, weak.

Defeated.

Realization hits me and I pull back immediately.

Whispered words turn to shallow breaths. Her heartbeat stutters and I abandon all thought of drinking her blood.

I loosen my grip and frantically lap at her neck, sealing her wound.

Please, God...

Isabella whimpers. She reaches her hand out. I take it.

"Shh, my love. I'm here. I'm not letting go."

"It hurts."

I want to cry. I would be bitten a thousand times over if it would ease her suffering.

"I know it does. You're so brave, my angel."

And she is. She knew what was coming and she still chose it.

She shudders. Her body is growing cooler.

"Tell me."

I know what she wants to hear.

Isabella's eyes flutter open. Her gaze is unfocused as she struggles to hang on.

I lean in close, whisper into her ear.

"When you awaken, I'll be right here, by your side. I'll be here to guide you. Show you. Love you. Forever."

"Forever," she repeats, her breathing very shallow, her eyes closing.

Her heart will stop soon. Never again will I hear its alluring rhythm. Never feel it quicken when I kiss her.

I mourn the loss of her humanity.

But celebrate the birth of her immortality.

I wrap my arms around her rigid body, rocking her gently. Repeat her name over and over. Tell her I love her and how sorry I am for the agony she's about to endure.

Although no tears fall, I weep.

And with one final exhale, my Isabella is gone.

I hope she's not too afraid. I hope she believed me when I told her I wouldn't let go.

I roll to the side and settle behind her again. Pull her close to me. Hold her tightly.

I'm a man of my word.

I don't let go.

* * *

**A/N: An epilogue will follow shortly. I can't thank you enough for reading and sticking with me. All your reviews, recs, kind words and support have meant so much to me! xo**


	14. Forever

_**Twilight**_** and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. **

**So much love and thanks to arfalcon for all her help and for believing in me from the start. Hugs to m244rob and MeilleurCafe for tons of encouragement throughout. And thanks to Kirsten for the spark. **

* * *

**~Forever~**

Color.

Surrounding me, embracing me.

Browns of winter, greens of spring, and everything in between.

Nature's colors, more vivid than any artist's palette.

Every hue made more beautiful by Isabella's presence.

She brightens the yellows, enriches the blues, outshines the golds.

Illuminates my existence.

As I hope I do hers.

Today we set out into the forest, the muted shades of winter giving way to the cheerful pastels of spring.

A perfect day for a lesson.

"Close your eyes. Listen. Tell me what you hear."

Isabella does as I ask. She lets out a sigh and tilts her face to the sky. Her brow knits in concentration as she takes in the symphony of the forest.

"Several different species of birds. Twigs snapping. Leaves rustling. Water." Her eyes open suddenly. "Footsteps."

"Man or beast?"

"Out here? I would assume beast. "

"Don't assume, determine."

She closes her eyes again and inhales the crisp March air.

"Beast."

"Excellent. Now, how many?"

"Does it matter?"

"Sometimes."

She cocks her head to the side, eyes fixed on an unknown point above.

"Four."

"Two," I say, shaking my head.

"How will I ever distinguish?" A hint of frustration tinges her voice.

"That will come with time and experience. The exact number isn't always important, but it is to your advantage to know what you're up against." I reach for her and pull her to me; I can't be without her touch for too long. "Anyway, I don't plan on letting you out of my sight long enough for you to worry about that."

"I need to learn how to take care of myself, Edward," she says, trying to wiggle out of my grasp, her face indignant.

"I know you do, my love. But I like taking care of you, too."

Isabella stills in my arms. She reaches up and touches my cheek, her gaze tender and loving.

"And you did take care of me. Just as you promised."

I tighten our embrace as memories of the past few months flood my mind. The torturous days and nights waiting for Isabella to awaken. The agonized cry she let out before she opened her eyes, confused and frantic with thirst. Tormented by the knowledge of what she was suffering, the sound of her anguish nearly drove me mad. I was physically weak as well, refusing to leave her side, my own thirst inconsequential to her well-being. Before she regained full consciousness, I managed to stumble into the woods, fighting hallucinations and weak limbs, to catch several rabbits and a young fawn. A paltry hunt, but enough to subside both our thirsts and lull Isabella back into a sleep-like state, giving me a little more time to regain my strength before she fully awakened.

She has taken to her transformation remarkably well. It's been three months since Isabella's change, but she's yet to interact with a human being. On a recent walk in the woods, she caught her first scent of human blood, faint and far away. Not so much to cause her discomfort, but enough to catch her attention. Her reaction was one of longing, so I'd like to give her a little more time to adjust before reintroducing her to society.

"Edward?" Isabella's voice pulls me back to the present.

"Yes, my love?"

"The footsteps are closer. Shall we?"

I release her from my arms and sweep my hand in front of me.

"Ladies first."

She's gone in a flash; I'm not far behind her.

My God, I love to watch her hunt! She's inherently graceful in her stride, lithe and powerful in her takedown. She takes my cue and asks her prey for forgiveness. Her final strike is clumsy, but what she lacks in technique, she makes up in zeal. Blood darkens the beast's neck and my mouth waters at the sight. Isabella pauses long enough to reach out to me; I drop to my knees beside her and together we share a primal feast.

* * *

Later, Isabella and I are sitting on a flat rock on the hill outside our house. The hill where I revealed my true self to her. Where she professed her love to me.

The ground is damp from an earlier rain shower, its earthy aroma pleasant. Familiar.

"You know we won't be able to stay here much longer. I've been here ten years; Mr. Elkins might soon start to notice I haven't aged. As soon as you're better able to control your urges, we'll move on." I collect her into my arms and bury my face in her hair, relishing her scent. While she's no longer human, she's still my Isabella.

"I shall miss this place. The memories…" My voice drifts off as I recall the events of the past year.

"Tell me again," she says, shifting in my arms to look up at me. I stroke her hair, knowing exactly what she wants to hear.

"When I first laid eyes upon you, I thought I'd stumbled into a dream. A living, breathing angel, sent down to save me from my wretched existence. But then I smelled you and the world I'd come to accept came crashing down around me."

"I'm sorry," she says.

"Apology accepted," I say, grinning. I take her hand and bring it to my lips. "When I first touched you, in Mr. Elkins' shop, I was in awe of the softness of your skin."

"And I thought you were the most handsome man I'd ever seen. The way you looked at me—I felt exposed, flustered…exhilarated."

We continue trading off recollections of our courtship.

"When you read to me in the library for the first time, I realized what I felt was more than bloodlust. I wanted to discover everything about you."

"The first time you posed me on our bench, I remember how your fingers caressed my cheek. You were so gentle, yet you set my blood on fire."

"Painting lessons…the first time I kissed you."

"Stargazing. When you told me the story of Cygnus."

"Our wedding."

"Our wedding night," she adds with a wicked grin.

I laugh at her candor. "Yes, I rather enjoyed that as well."

We fall quiet, watching the storm clouds break up over the horizon.

"Where shall we go?" she asks.

"Wherever you'd like. We have the world at our disposal."

"We might as well start with this country. I've always wanted to go west. I should like to see the sun set into the ocean."

"It's beautiful. Miles and miles of untamed wilderness." I tousle her hair. "Perfect for a wild and untamed vampire."

Isabella narrows her eyes and opens her mouth to protest but I silence her with a kiss. She melts into my arms, my teasing forgiven.

"We could go to the Pacific Northwest. Seattle is a thriving city."

"It's not far from the coast, is it? I've always wanted to live near the ocean. Somewhere high on a bluff where I can watch the waves crash on the rocks." She turns to me. "Imagine the sunsets you would be able to capture on your canvas."

"That sounds delightful. Then again, any place you choose is perfect as long as I'm with you." I coax her down onto the wet ground and settle over her, my hand pushing up her skirts.

"Edward! My dress will get ruined!"

"I'll buy you a new one." She squeezes her eyes shut when I slip my fingers between her legs.

Our hands work together to undo my trousers, our need too great to fully disrobe.

"I'll hold you to that," she says, taking hold of me, guiding me inside her.

"I've no doubt you will," I say, pushing into her.

I will never get enough of her.

She is mine. I am hers. Bound together.

Forever.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone for reading, recc'ing, and taking the time to share your thoughts. You have all made this such a wonderful experience and I've been truly touched by your support! I've been thinking of writing a chapter from Isabella's POV, so if anyone has any suggestions, I'd love to hear them! xo**


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